


The Stripe-coated Assassin

by Abraxas



Series: Grantleigh Manor Redux [1]
Category: The Avengers (TV 1961), To the Manor Born
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Avengersland, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Friendship, Humour, Intrigue, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: 1966. When Richard DeVere asks his friends Emma Peel and John Steed for help, he has no idea it will lead him to Grantleigh and a life-changing meeting with Audrey fforbes-Hamilton.Murder, diabolical plots and twisted masterminds are all present as the four band together to unravel the mystery. The only clue? A jar of honey...





	1. Prologue

** _ _ **

** _Steed tackles a sticky problem,_ **

** _Emma finds a hive of activity._ **

** **

** _Audrey creates a smoke screen,_ **

** _Richard gets stung._ **

_London and Grantleigh, 1966_

The droning buzz had reached a crescendo when the chairman reached the lecturn. He regarded the scene with relish: thirty men in their striped jackets; thirty voices in unison creating a wall of sound that would terrorise any man.

‘Gentlemen!’

The noise stopped. The silence that followed was primed, waiting for something.

‘We have taken as our inspiration the bee. We work towards a common goal. We protect our commerce and our country from outsiders, just like the bee defends its hive. And, like the bee, we swarm against our enemies.’ He raised a goblet, fashioned to look like the stinger of a bee.

‘I give you the Seillean Club!’

Thirty matching goblets were raised. ‘The Seillean Club!’


	2. Busy Bees

The modish café just off the King’s Road was buzzing; its op art décor was heavily indebted to (if not actually the work of) Bridget Riley and the blank-faced waitresses looked as though they would have been more at home being snapped by Bailey or Donovan than taking food orders. But it provided a stimulating backdrop to conversation.

Not that the conversation of her lunch companion was, ordinarily, in need of more stimulation.

Emma Peel had first met Richard DeVere the year before at an auction, where they had been the last two standing in a fierce bid over a particularly fine Egyptian pot. The bidding had been aided in no small degree by the frisson of attraction generated when her eyes had met the amused dark gaze of her competitor. She had conceded defeat in the end and he had offered to buy her lunch as a gesture of gratitude.

With no criminal masterminds demanding her attention that weekend, Emma had accepted and had been pleasantly surprised to discover that along with his handsome face and easy charm, Richard DeVere was also possessed of a keen intellect and a vast knowledge that covered a range of topics.

Only just thirty, he was a self-made man and she had a healthy respect for someone who could build himself an empire from nothing; she also had a healthy appreciation for his good looks and disciplined, athletic body and so they had enjoyed one another immensely for a week or so. Life and a few diabolical plots had then got in the way and rather than picking up where they had left off, their embryonic romance had evolved into a friendship that largely comprised the occasional lunch or dinner and attendance at an auction or the opera.

Which was a pity, Emma had thought – more than once – because in many respects, Richard DeVere was pretty much the perfect companion.

Today did not have quite the rhythm of their usual encounters; Emma watched him keenly across the table, noted the faint frown and the restlessness in his fingers fiddling with the glasses and cutlery.

‘Richard, is something wrong? You’ve barely said a word.’

‘I…’ He blew out a breath and smiled apologetically. ‘It’s nothing. Just business matters.’

‘It might help to talk about it.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘After all, you are the one who invited me to lunch.’

Richard smiled slightly. ‘Well, I haven’t seen you in ages. You and Steed are always off somewhere.’

‘True. But that isn’t the reason.’ Off his look she continued: ‘If there was something you didn’t want to talk about, you wouldn’t have rung me up.’

His hands stilled and he leaned back in his chair. ‘All right. There was something, but I’ve changed my mind – that is a gentleman’s prerogative.’

Emma shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t.’

‘It was worth a try.’ They smiled at each other, but his didn’t quite reach his eyes and faded too quickly. ‘It really is probably nothing – if I say it out loud it will sound quite mad.’

She sipped some of her wine. ‘You’d be surprised just how many mad-sounding schemes are actually true. Tell me.’

One more moment of hesitation and then his face cleared. ‘You heard about those businessmen who died recently. Sudden death, shockwaves through the City?’

Emma nodded. ‘One was severe allergic reaction and the other was heart failure, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s what was released. They were both allergic reactions – I made a point of finding out.’

There was a shadow in his eyes that stirred an uneasy feeling, the same sort of tingling across her skin when hunting down the latest nefarious megalomaniac with an eye bent on world domination. Or worse.

It was difficult to imagine how Richard DeVere, one of the most straightforward and honourable people she knew, could be even remotely connected with anything untoward.

‘Were they friends of yours?’

‘No, not really. I knew them slightly: Yeates was an investment banker and Buchanan was in import-exports.’ He grimaced. ‘Yes, I know that sounds iffy, but as far as I know they were both perfectly legitimate. They were potential investors – you know how it is.’

She nodded. ‘And had any contracts been signed?’

‘The ink was barely dry. And they had both been sent a hamper courtesy of Cavendish Foods, all of the most high-end goods.’

‘Were they both the same?’

He smiled slightly. ‘No. The only item that they had in common was a jar of honey.’

‘Honey?’ Something flitted across his face and her eyes narrowed. ‘What exactly was it that Yeates and Buchanan were allergic to?’

‘Bee stings.’

The sounds of the restaurant rushed around them for a moment. Emma sat very still, her mind exploring ten different possibilities at once.

‘I’m guessing your honey doesn’t ship with live bees as a bonus.’

‘Hardly. Besides, it wasn’t really my honey; it was a brand we’ve recently started stocking: Miss fforbes-Hamilton’s Bee Eater Honey. Very upmarket.’

Emma’s head tilted back slightly. ‘fforbes-Hamilton? Do you mean Audrey fforbes-Hamilton?’

His eyes widened in slight surprise. ‘I don’t know. I thought it was just a brand name… Do you know this fforbes-Hamilton woman?’

‘I do. Steed knows her rather better. In fact, I think he’s at her place in Somerset at the moment.’

Richard frowned, examining this new information. ‘I think I need to have a word with Steed when he gets back.’

He wasn’t the only one, Emma thought.

A waitress who looked as though she could barely support the weight of her false eyelashes, and her lips whited out by a heavy layer of lipstick, deposited two plates on their table and after murmuring her certainty that they would enjoy their meal, wafted off. Richard regarded the contents dubiously.

‘I don’t know whether to eat this or have it framed.’

‘Perhaps it tastes better than it looks,’ Emma said encouragingly.

Richard admired her lack of hesitation as she attacked her meal; but his scepticism was vindicated as her face started to register horror.

With an effort, she swallowed.

‘There’s a decent pub around the corner,’ he said. ‘What do you say we go there and get the unfortunate taste of fashion out of our mouths?’

Emma smiled. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

* * *

‘Are you sure you won’t marry me?’

‘Positive.’

‘You don’t think I’d make a good husband?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll make someone a very good husband someday – about twenty years from now, perhaps.’ Audrey fforbes-Hamilton regarded her companion with amused affection and he returned her a broad smile.

‘Oh, I don’t know: a stately pile-‘

‘Grantleigh is not a pile.’

‘-horses and dogs. Sounds idyllic.’

‘You’d be bored within ten minutes.’

‘I hadn’t got to the best part yet,’ Steed said reproachfully. ‘The beautiful lady of the manor.’

‘I’ll admit, I am sensational,’ Audrey said, serious, but her blue eyes dancing, ‘but I’m far too good for a husband who’d be running off every five minutes to God knows where with another woman.’

Wounded, Steed raised his eyebrows. ‘Another woman?’

‘How is Emma?’

He smiled. ‘Ah, Mrs Peel… She’s very well; she’ll be delighted you were asking after her.’

Audrey shook her head and they continued their descent of the stone steps, his arm around her shoulders. ‘It would serve you right if one of these days I accepted you. It might be worth it, just to see the look of horror.’

‘I don’t horrify very easily. Although…’ Steed’s eyes slid past Audrey to the figure crunching its way across the gravel. ‘Speaking of stately piles.’

‘Shh!’ Audrey shot him a reproachful glance and then pasted a slightly tight smile onto her face.

At the base of the steps, Marton fforbes-Hamilton stopped and peered up at them. A short, stocky man who would one day, inevitably, run to fat, with thinning dark hair and a noticeable weakness around the chin. He eyed his cousin appreciatively; the riding habit emphasised her tall slender figure, the tailored jacket hugging her curves. He was less appreciative of Steed’s arm around her and the fact that Audrey didn’t seem to mind.

‘Hello, Marton,’ Audrey said, without much enthusiasm.

‘Audrey.’ He rewarded her with a somewhat leering smile. ‘Steed.’

John Steed inclined his head, regarding the other man with a coolly appraising gaze. Marton had inherited Grantleigh, Audrey’s beloved childhood home, and had put it up for sale almost before probate had been granted. She had managed, just, to scrape the money together to purchase the estate back and the whole ramshackle place seemed to be held together by Audrey’s iron will.

But it was a heavy burden on her slender shoulders; and even if John Steed had not considered Marton fforbes-Hamilton a scoundrel of the worst kind, he still would have been highly suspicious of his ongoing presence in Audrey’s life.

Steed kissed Audrey’s cheek in parting and she waved the vintage Bentley down the drive, watching it until passed from view.

‘I don’t like the way that fellow is always hanging around poking his nose into our business.’

Audrey rolled her eyes. ‘He isn’t poking his nose in anywhere. And it’s my business, remember?’ She huffed out a breath. ‘Come on. We have work to do.’


	3. Council of War

The lift slid smoothly upwards, numbers illuminating as they moved past floors.

‘I’m surprised I was invited,’ Steed said.

‘Oh?’

‘I thought it was just you DeVere wanted to show his porcelain collection off to.’

Emma glanced at him, not moving her head. ‘Jealousy is an ugly emotion.’

‘Not jealous, Mrs Peel – just protective.’

Her lips quirked in amusement. ‘You think that you need to protect me from Richard?’

‘It’s the nice ones you have to be most careful of.’

A pause.

‘There was another one today.’

‘Last night,’ Steed corrected. ‘Lytton.’

‘Bee stings?’

‘Apparently so.’

Emma tossed the hair away from her shoulders impatiently. ‘What does Mother say?’

‘There’s no official interest. Yet.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And unofficially?’

He smiled at her.

A soft ping signalled their arrival, the doors rolling back almost noiselessly. The door to the penthouse was already open, two men leaving with rather grim expressions.

And grim manners to match: both Steed and Emma stepped out of their way, with neither receiving acknowledgement for their consideration. They exchanged glances, continued towards the penthouse and were met by Richard.

‘Who are the two charmers?’ Steed asked, looking back at the pair who were stepping into the lift.

‘They’re on my board of directors.’

Steed raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘You might want to think about changing your board.’

‘These days I think about little else. Come in.’

He looked tired, Emma thought: lines around his eyes and a hard set to his mouth that was uncharacteristic.

The interior of the mansion flat was an oasis of exquisite good taste and Emma paused to appreciate the Balla in the hallway: the explosion of golds and reds offset the muted shades in the rugs and paintwork.

A diminutive but sturdy figure observed them from the end of the hall. Maria Polouvicka studied the newcomers. ‘More guests?’

‘At least they’re invited,’ Richard told her.

Her eyes moved from her son to Emma, Steed, and back again. There was trouble, she could feel it. And she had never trusted red-haired women. They were trouble on their own. Emma Peel greeted her in slightly halting but perfectly serviceable Czech. Maria responded graciously, but pointedly, in English.

Richard guided Steed and Emma to his study, firmly closing the door behind them.

‘Drinks?’

Murmured acquiescence, and they claimed their seats. Steed cast an appraising eye around the room. You couldn’t fault DeVere on his style, he had to admit: everything was selected either for fitness of purpose or its aesthetic qualities – and sometimes, happily, for both. He accepted the glass of brandy (which was excellent) and settled back into the expanse of the soft leather sofa and kept his eyes fixed on his host. It wasn’t that he disliked Richard DeVere, or even mistrusted him – it was simply that he didn’t _know _him, and in Steed’s business the unknown was always suspect.

‘You heard about Lytton, I suppose,’ Richard said, sitting somewhat tautly in a chair opposite them. The same restless energy that Emma had noticed at their lunch was again present, but amplified. His hands seemed to be in constant motion.

‘Was he also connected to Cavendish?’ Steed appeared to be more interested in the contents of his glass than his host, his tone light and almost detached.

‘Tangentially,’ Richard said. ‘He specialised in contract law; he’d just finished drawing up papers between us and a Japanese firm. I knew him slightly better than the others. He was a nice man. I liked him.’

‘Did he also get the honey?’ Emma, a gentle question.

Richard nodded.

‘Why were your directors here?’ Steed’s deceptively mild gaze moved from his glass to Richard. ‘This really is an excellent brandy.’

‘Yes, it is. Would you care for some more?’

‘No, it was just an observation.’ He placed the glass on the table and smiled slightly. ‘The directors?’

Richard sighed. ‘They wanted to know why I’ve put a hold on sales of the Bee Eater Honey.’

Emma raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘Have you?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

Steed sat back in his seat. ‘Why are they so interested?’

‘Gayforth and Lumsden take a very close interest in everything at Cavendish,’ Richard said, and Emma noticed the flare in the depths of his eyes and the tightening around his mouth. ‘It is their job, but it’s rather like having sharks circling when there’s blood in the water. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to use this as a reason to force me out.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at Steed. ‘Emma tells me that you have a connection with this Miss fforbes-Hamilton. The place is called Grantleigh, isn’t it? I checked through the paperwork – the negotiations were conducted with a Marton fforbes-Hamilton.’

‘He’s Audrey’s cousin,’ Steed replied. ‘He inherited Grantleigh and then sold it to her. It’s Audrey’s business, but from what I can tell Marton acts as a sort of business partner.’

Richard tilted his head. ‘Sort of?’

Steed smiled again. ‘Business matters aren’t really my line. He hangs around the estate a lot.’

A slight laugh greeted that. ‘Sounds like most of my board of directors.’ He exchanged a knowing glance with Emma. And then his eyes went back to Steed. ‘And what’s she like?’

The smile was one of affection this time. ‘Audrey’s the sort of girl who could run the British Empire single-handed. If we still had one, of course.’

Richard was wary. ‘Sounds charming.’

‘Oh, she is. When she wants to be.’

‘I don’t suppose she’s the sort of girl to orchestrate some sort of bizarre honey-based murder plot aimed at City businessmen she’s never met?’ Richard asked without much hope. The whole idea was even more preposterous when it was said out loud. And yet three men were dead. And the company he had spent a lifetime building could be destroyed by people he didn’t know for reasons he didn’t understand.

‘No, she isn’t,’ Steed said firmly.

Emma watched him along her eyes; her uncharacteristic silence attracted her partner’s attention and Steed glanced at her and then looked away again.

‘So, I suppose that’s that,’ Richard said.

Steed hesitated. ‘Not necessarily.’

There was little more to say. They took their leave, Emma making another attempt to draw Mrs Polouvicka into a conversation in Czech and once again finding her friendly overtures rebuffed.

‘I don’t think your mother likes me very much,’ Emma said as Richard helped her on with her coat.

‘Nonsense,’ he said.

‘I don’t like them,’ Maria stated emphatically when the door had closed after Steed and Emma.

‘Mother, they are friends and they are helping me.’

‘She is trouble, that one,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘And he looks like a secret policeman.’

There were times when his mother’s perception was uncanny and except that the walls were too thick to hear through, he would have suspected her of listening in.

‘Steed is a gentleman.’

She shrugged this off. ‘And what does that mean? That is no guarantee. There is a saying in old Czechoslovakia: a black heart can’t be hidden by fine cloth.’

Richard’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘That wasn’t one of your best.’

‘Oh!’ She glared at him.

He put an arm around her. ‘Don’t you trust my judgement?’

She gazed up at him, her expression suddenly stricken at the very idea that she could think of her beloved Bedrich as anything other than perfect. ‘Of course I do!’

‘Good. And I trust them.’ He squeezed her shoulders; a warm, comforting embrace. ‘So everything will be all right.’

Back in the lift, Emma drummed the fingers of her right hand against the back of her left. ‘You could have been more helpful.’

‘You realise that DeVere could be involved in this.’

Emma sucked in a breath. ‘If he were, he would hardly ask us to take an interest.’

Steed shrugged lightly. ‘Could be misdirection. Or trying to get himself back out of it.’

‘And what about Audrey? She could be the one involved.’

‘What would her motive be?’

‘What’s Richard’s?’

‘The other possibility is that they’re both being used by a third party.’ It was a reasonable solution and Steed stated it reasonably.

Emma brushed the hair back from her shoulders. ‘Well then, it’s up to us to find out who it is and put a stop to it.’

Steed turned to her, a smile of delight spreading across his face. ‘Two minds with but a single thought.’

Caught between amusement and irritation, Emma shook her head and suppressed a smile.


	4. A Weekend in the Country

The silver Jaguar E-Type roadster threaded effortlessly through the country lanes and Emma spent much of the two hour drive from London to Somerset admiring both the power and the handling. It wasn’t quite enough to persuade her to give up her Lotus, but she could enjoy a vicarious dalliance.

And Richard was an excellent driver, handling the sharp blind bends and narrow stretches easily.

Steed had not been entirely convinced that Richard joining them on the excursion to Grantleigh was a good idea. Not that he had said as much, but she could tell by the expression behind his eyes and the slightly overdone pleasantries that had been extended before they had set off.

If she were completely honest, Emma had reservations of her own. But Richard was, she was sure, well able to take care of himself; and as he had argued vociferously when the idea had been floated, it was his company that was implicated. He could hardly be expected to sit back and watch it crumble.

And given her own status, she could hardly argue the point that he wasn’t a professional; and so Emma had accepted his offer to drive them both to Somerset, following in the wake of Steed’s Bentley.

‘So, apart from being a latter-day Queen Victoria-wannabe, what is this fforbes-Hamilton girl like?’

Emma considered this for a moment. ‘She’s had a lot to contend with. She has a crumbling estate, not enough money and she’s trying to build up a business without very much support.’

‘An independent business woman… Sounds promising.’ He flashed her a smile; Emma rolled her eyes at him.

‘I don’t really know her all that well – we don’t have all that much in common.’

‘Apart from Steed.’

‘Yes. Apart from Steed.’

The car passed over the rise, and Richard had his first sighting of Grantleigh Manor, the creamy stone nestled in the verdant, undulating Somerset landscape. He slowed instinctively, taking it in.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes…’ Richard glanced at her, smiling slightly. ‘Yes. It’s just not quite as Dracula’s castle as I was imagining.’

Emma viewed the manor critically. ‘It’s inoffensive, architecturally.’

‘It’s hard to imagine anything awful happening there,’ he said softly.

‘In four hundred years, something must have.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ Richard released the handbrake and they eased down the incline.

Grantleigh was not one of the great stately homes, and as far as Emma was concerned it was a pleasant if unremarkable house. But in the golden haze of an early summer’s day, it looked happily situated and very attractive.

For Richard, it looked like a dream. He had been a guest at country houses before, and while there had been others more imposing or more significant in their design credentials, they had all seemed rather impersonal. Grantleigh’s clean lines and proportions were aesthetically pleasing but it was more than that. Somehow, even from that distance, it looked like something that the others didn’t: it looked like a home.

As the E-type rolled to a halt beside the Bentley, Steed descended the stone steps from the portico, followed by a burly young footman and a butler of distinguished vintage and serene mien. The footman was directed to retrieve the bags from the cars and the butler greeted the two latest arrivals.

‘Welcome back, Madam.’

Emma smiled warmly. ‘Hello, Brabinger. This is Mister DeVere.’

Richard nodded. ‘Hello.’

‘Sir.’ Brabinger inspected the young man and found himself disposed to like him: there was warmth and humour in those intelligent dark eyes; something in his expression that was more attractive than even his handsome face. This Mr DeVere, Brabinger decided, was a gentleman.

As was Mr Steed – although, there had, from the start, been something of a question mark over him, and that always left Brabinger with an uneasy feeling. Mr Steed’s visits routinely left him in need of an Alka-Seltzer. And then there was Marton fforbes-Hamilton, who, despite his birth and background, was most decidedly _not _a gentleman. Neither were worthy suitors for Miss Audrey, as far as Brabinger was concerned. But there was something about this young man from London with the dancing eyes and the ready smile that made him think that maybe, just maybe…

‘Audrey is at the hives, apparently,’ Steed said. ‘We can meet her there, if you like.’

‘I would like,’ Richard said, determined. ‘Emma?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll unpack.’ She followed Brabinger into the house and the two men followed the path skirting the side of the house and headed towards a sheltered meadow.

‘I know it’s your job,’ Richard said after a moment, ‘but I do appreciate this.’

Steed glanced sideways at him. ‘As you say, it’s my job. Although, strictly speaking, I’m not here in a professional capacity.’

Richard smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I can imagine. I’m also starting to feel a bit of an idiot.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well… It is possible that those men died of perfectly natural causes and it’s just all a coincidence.’

Steed made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, his umbrella swinging easily against clumps of long grass.

‘But I have felt these last few days as though I were going out of my mind.’ Richard said it more to himself but there was an air of relief in finally having the words out loud.

Without seeming to, Steed studied the other man’s profile as though satisfying himself of something. ‘Well, let’s hope this weekend will set your mind at rest.’

The had reached a large wooden hut and Steed pushed the door open. Inside was warm and bright, the air laden with the rich sweet scent of honey and clean wood. The walls were lined with shelves arranged to resemble a honeycomb and all were filled with books and impedimenta that Richard could not identify but guessed were connected to beekeeping. At one end was a system of ladders leading up to gantries that ran across two large metal vats. They passed through the space, out another door and stepped into a lush meadow.

It was studded with numerous structures in pastel shades that reminded Richard of miniature, oddly-shaped beach huts. The drone from the hives was a deep, heavy note. Strangely comforting. And moving between the hives was a figure in white protective clothing, surrounded by billowing clouds from a smoker.

The movements were, of necessity, slow and deliberate. And utterly mesmerising, Richard thought. The beekeeper noticed them, raised a hand in greeting, and started towards them.

They remained on the perimeter of the meadow, and as the white-clad person approached, Steed tipped his bowler. Heavy gauntlets were pulled off and pale slender hands raised to push back the thick veil and then removed the hat.

Feeling as though he had been stupefied by the same smoke she used to tame her bees, Richard stared at the girl. Honey-blonde hair glistened in the sun, creamy skin warmed by a faint flush of rose and blue eyes that seemed to shift through shades of azure and sapphire and back again.

She wasn’t, perhaps, a great beauty, not the way that Anna had been. But her loveliness was undeniable and in that moment she was breathtaking.

‘Richard DeVere – Audrey fforbes-Hamilton.’ Steed made the introductions and Richard extended his hand.

‘Mister DeVere.’ Audrey’s tone was crisp and she shook hands firmly.

‘It’s very kind of you to invite me, Miss fforbes-Hamilton.’

She glanced briefly at Steed, who was wearing an expression of benign disinterest in the entire affair. The invitation had not been her idea and she was still not entirely sure how she had ended up hosting a weekend house party she’d had no desire to hold, let alone why Richard DeVere was at Grantleigh. But he sold her honey and it was nice, after all, to meet the person responsible for distributing her wares. Especially when he had confounded her expectations by being much younger and far more attractive than the head of a corporation had a right to be.

He was studying her intently and she met that scrutiny with a candid blue gaze that held a hint of enquiry. He still had her hand in his.

‘Is everything all right?’

Richard blinked slowly. ‘Yes… Yes, it’s just-’ He smiled suddenly, a self-deprecating expression. ‘I’m sorry. I was going to say something, but you’d think it was just a line.’

She should maintain her dignity, Audrey told herself, ignore that remark and reclaim her hand. ‘Oh? And what is this not-line?’

A flicker tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I was going to say that we’ve met before, but we haven’t.’ He frowned then. ‘Have we?’

‘No. No, I’m quite sure we haven’t.’

Steed watched with interest as Audrey’s business-like manner faltered and her face softened. Richard DeVere, he thought, was either an extremely skilful player, or had genuinely just experienced the sort of thunderbolt that would only hit a man once or twice in a lifetime. Whichever it was, it seemed to be affecting Audrey in a most unexpected manner. He cleared his throat softly and after a moment the pair separated with a distinct reluctance.

Gathering herself, Audrey addressed herself to Steed. ‘Isn’t Emma with you?’

‘She’s unpacking.’ And, if he knew Mrs Peel, conducting a very discreet and very thorough reconnoitre of the manor and its inhabitants.

‘Well, we should join her,’ Audrey said, her briskness restored. Superficially, at any rate.

She led the way back to the manor, chatting to Steed as they walked but wholly aware of the new and somewhat unsettling presence of Richard DeVere.


	5. Common Ground

The discreet tap at her door was followed by Steed’s entry and he crossed the floor with his customary noiseless tread. It was more than training, Emma thought: more his innate dislike of letting anyone know where he was at any given moment. At least he had used the door, for once, instead of the window.

‘Any news, Mrs Peel?’

‘I’ve hardly had a chance.’ She smoothed down her hair, watching him in the mirror.

Steed perched on the end of the bed, bouncing slightly as though testing the spring. The room was decorated in the chinoiserie style and was large and attractive. It also lacked the faint musty odour that his own held and he smiled to himself at the thought that Audrey was clearly relying on his understanding of her circumstances – and his discretion – not to complain that the best spare rooms had been given to her other guests.

‘It’s not like you to be defeatist.’

‘Not defeatist, merely honest. If there is anything to find, it probably won’t be in the house.’

‘You’re quite right. The honey hut is probably the more logical target.’

Emma tilted her head. ‘Honey hut?’

‘On the edge of the meadow with the hives. Quite a large wooden structure – you can’t miss it.’

It was a true skill, Emma thought, that ability of his to volunteer her for jobs. ‘And what will you be doing while I’m investigating the honey hut?’

He offered her a look of wounded innocence. ‘You sound as though you suspect me of nefarious designs.’

‘That’s because you usually have them.’

He smiled at her. ‘How right you are.’

She twisted around on the stool; he was leaning back on one elbow, his gaze lazy and amused. ‘Quite comfortable?’

‘Very. You should try it out.’

She pulled in a breath through her nose. ‘We’re due for drinks in the library.’

His eyes crinkled. ‘The gong hasn’t sounded yet.’

Emma couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips and rose from her seat.

* * *

Audrey paused on the threshold into the library and stood for a moment, watching the man who seemed to be attempting to dig his way through the chimney breast.

‘There are no secret tunnels,’ she said loudly.

Richard started, hit his forehead against the mantelpiece and swore under his breath. He glanced back at his hostess and then looked at her again, longer this time, and straightened up. The deep blue dress skimmed her slim figure and the hem hitting just above the knee showed off her long slender legs. He managed a smile and wondered if he would ever manage a coherent sentence around this girl. But he would do his best.

‘A pity about the tunnels. Another dream shattered.’

She smiled slightly at that and walked across the room to him; she moved with a dancer’s ease and he was struck by the poise that seemed entirely natural rather than assumed.

‘I was trying to work out if there’s another fireplace behind this one.’

Audrey looked at the gaudy red and blue fire surround and suppressed a shudder. The thing really was hideous. ‘Why should there be another one?’

‘Well…’ Richard eyed it with evident distaste. ‘It doesn’t exactly match the rest of the house, does it?’

It was one thing to find fault with her home herself, but quite another to have a complete stranger do it. Audrey felt her irritation rising and along with it the need to defend anything and everything about Grantleigh, no matter what.

‘That is a genuine Adam fireplace.’

He remained unmoved. ‘It way well be, but that would still be, what, two hundred years out? The manor isn’t eighteenth century.’

‘No… No, it isn’t.’

‘Well, there you are.’ He cast an appraising eye over the chimney breast. ‘That’s obviously been here since the place was built, but the mantelpiece is a later addition. I’ll bet you there’s an original fireplace behind that thing.’

In spite of herself, Audrey was drawn in and she examined the mantelpiece. ‘You know, I think you might be right… It’s been like this my whole life, I never even thought about it.’

He leaned towards her, conspiratorial. ‘Don’t suppose you have a crowbar?’

‘I could- No!’ Audrey pulled away. ‘You are not about to start tearing the place down just to satisfy your curiosity!’

‘Not the whole house, just this fireplace,’ he said reasonably; his eyes gleamed at her. ‘Sorry. I can tend to get a bit carried away over things I’m interested in.’

‘Is architecture one of your interests?’

Richard leaned against the mantel; a casual pose and he seemed quite at home in the Grantleigh library. The surroundings suited him.

‘A little. I don’t know as much about it as I’d like. But then there are lots of things I’d like to know more about.’ Including her, he thought.

Audrey rearranged minutely some of the objects on the mantel. ‘I think you know my uncle.’

He frowned. ‘Oh?’

‘Greville Hartley.’

‘Hartley…’ His face cleared. ‘Oh, yes. I didn’t know he was a relative. He seems a decent sort – he’s one of the few at the Sheridan Club who treats me like a member instead of a waiter.’

It struck her as an odd thing to say and Audrey studied his face. He had said the words lightly, but there was a steeliness behind them. ‘Is that unusual?’

A sardonic amusement crept into his eyes. ‘I’m an outsider, you see. A self-made man. And the Old Boy Network doesn’t like that one bit.’

Audrey let out a breath of laughter. ‘Oh, but that’s just a myth, surely!’

‘Don’t you believe it! Not having one of the old school ties is bad enough, but being a foreigner is worse.’

It was Audrey’s turn to frown. ‘Who’s a foreigner?’

‘Me,’ he said patiently. ‘I am. Czechoslovakian – by birth, anyway. And a Catholic. Lapsed, admittedly, much to my mother’s despair. There: now you know all of my dark past.’

‘Richard DeVere doesn’t sound Czechoslovakian,’ she said after a moment, not entirely sure of what to say. With his cut-glass accent and easy demeanour, he couldn’t have seemed more like an English gentleman. He had suddenly morphed into being a far more exotic creature and yet he still watched her with those same calm, slightly amused, dark eyes.

‘That’s because I changed it. Easier for the English to say Richard DeVere than Bedrich Polouvicek.’

‘Bedrich Pol…’

‘Polouvicek.’

Audrey raised her chin and repeated the name, carefully mimicking his pronunciation. His eyebrows raised slightly.

‘Not bad.’

‘Well, it isn’t that hard.’

There was a flicker across his face, something that she couldn’t name; but it brought a softness to his eyes. They weren’t quite as dark as she had first thought: there were flecks of gold and the colour seemed to shift through shades from dark to light and back again like pieces of tiger’s eye.

‘Most people don’t bother trying,’ he said.

‘More fool them,’ Audrey said firmly.

His gaze travelled her slowly and she shivered slightly, a delicious tightening of her skin followed by a sear of heat across her cheeks.

‘You’re not what I was expecting as a lady beekeeper in the wilds of Somerset.’

‘What were you expecting?’

Richard laughed slightly, at himself. ‘Oh… Someone more like Margaret Rutherford, I suppose.’

‘I have a very high regard for Margaret Rutherford,’ Audrey said, eyebrows arching delicately.

‘So do I. But you’re much prettier.’

‘That’s true,’ Audrey agreed and he laughed again. She returned to her arrangement across the mantelpiece. ‘Aren’t you taking rather a risk, Mister DeVere?’

The wariness in his face didn’t quite match the levity of her remark. ‘Risk?’

Audrey met his gaze levelly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that Emma Peel is the type who would stand for her boyfriend flirting with another woman.’

He relaxed again. ‘I’m not her boyfriend.’ A pause. ‘We did have a … brief … fling about a year ago, but that’s long over. We’re friends.’

‘I see. And there isn’t a Mrs DeVere waiting in London?’

‘No.’

‘Not a soon-to-be?’

Richard glanced away from her, his fingers following the patterned lines across the mantelpiece. The design and the colours were deplorable, he thought vaguely; the best thing you could do with it was turf it on the scrap-heap. ‘There was,’ he said softly, looking back at her. ‘Anna. But she died two years ago. A hit-and-run driver.’

Audrey bit down on her lip and the breath of air she took in suddenly felt thin and her lips were dry. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So was I.’ A flicker around his lips. ‘But life goes on.’

She hadn’t realised just how close they were standing until Brabinger entered, ushering in more guests. So close that she could catch the light scent of his cologne and feel the warmth from his body; so close that her fingers were almost brushing his where their hands rested on the mantelpiece.

‘Excuse me…’ She crossed the room and greeted the small influx of Brigadier Lemington, Marton, Marjory Frobisher and a handful of others. Steed and Emma followed a few moments later.

‘I say, Aud, you are dressed up!’ Marjory looked admiringly at Audrey’s fashionable dress and noticed that her hair was a little more done than usual and there was heightened colour in her cheeks that wasn’t just due to blusher. Her gaze moved around the room and when Audrey heard a little squeak with an intake of breath, she knew that the inevitable had happened.

‘Who’s that?’ Marjory was already looking misty.

‘Who?’

‘Him!’ It was part exclamation, part sigh.

Audrey followed her gaze with a perfect approximation of non-interest. ‘Richard DeVere. He’s here for the weekend.’

Marjory looked over Audrey again. ‘Ah! So that’s why you’re all dolled up.’

‘I am not all dolled up,’ Audrey responded fiercely. ‘I just … threw on the nearest thing to hand.’

A nod greeted this. ‘Of course.’ Her eyes wandered back to Richard, who had been collared by Marton fforbes-Hamilton and didn’t look as though he were completely enjoying the conversation. The difference between the two men couldn’t have been more marked, Marjory thought; and if Marton really were serious in his pursuit of his cousin, he’d be better served by staying as far away as possible from the tall, handsome stranger.

‘But who _is _he?’

‘He’s the head of Cavendish Foods.’

‘Oh gosh! He must be worth a fortune!’

‘Marjory! Don’t be vulgar.’

‘What’s vulgar about that? Tall, dark, handsome, rich…’ Marjory frowned. ‘There must be something wrong with him. Not very clever?’

Audrey pushed her lips out thoughtfully. ‘No, he seems reasonably intelligent.’

‘No sense of humour.’

‘He didn’t crack any jokes but I wouldn’t say he’s humourless.’

Marjory took her lower lip between her teeth, thinking. ‘Oh, I know, he’s married.’

Audrey accepted a glass of sherry from Brabinger’s tray, took a sip and shook her head. ‘No. Unattached, apparently.’

‘Really…’ Marjory didn’t try to hide her deepening interest. ‘Maybe he…’

‘What?’

Marjory lowered her voice, her lips barely moving. ‘Maybe he’s, you know… Doesn’t _like _women.’

For a moment, Audrey considered encouraging this fiction. But Marjory was already laughing off her own suggestion.

‘Well, if you don’t introduce me, Aud, I’ll jolly well go over there and do it myself.’

Audrey sighed. ‘Oh, all _right._’

The two women manoeuvred between the little knots of guests and as they approached, Audrey became aware that Marton was introducing Richard to the single most loathed object in the Grantleigh collection.

‘…and I got the brute, right between the eyes,’ Marton was saying proudly.

Richard regarded the item with wary distaste. ‘So, you shot that.’

‘Right between the eyes,’ Marton repeated.

‘And then turned it into a lamp.’

Which would go a long away to explaining the looked of outrage on the crocodile’s face, Audrey had always thought. As though being shot weren’t bad enough, but to be stuffed and made into a decorative household appliance really was adding insult to the aforementioned injury. And then he had made her a present of it.

‘What do you say to that?’ Marton was pinkly smug.

‘It’s beyond words,’ Richard said honestly.

‘In my India days, don’tcha know. ‘Course, place has gone to the dogs since we handed it over to the natives.’

‘Marton.’ Audrey’s voice was sharp.

‘That’s the thing with damn foreigners,’ Marton continued, ‘can’t be bloody trusted to organise the proverbial in a brewery.’

Shame, like a spear, shot through her; her cheeks felt oddly numb. ‘Marton, Mister DeVere is-’

‘Waiting for an introduction,’ Richard said smoothly and offered a glinting smile to Marjory, who promptly blushed prettily.

Golden curls trembling about her face, she took the hand he held out to her. ‘Oh, gosh. Marjory Frobisher.’

‘Richard DeVere.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Now, I’m a stranger in these parts, so I’d be glad of some local insights...’ Over Marjory’s ducked head, Richard caught Audrey’s eye and winked at her.

An answering breath of relieved laughter broke from her lips and she watched the pair move away before rounding on her cousin.

From a discreet nook, and with every appearance of being completely oblivious to what was unfolding, John Steed had been watching the scene intently. While he had not entirely ruled Richard DeVere out of being involved in whatever the murderous scheme was, he was prepared to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He was less beneficially inclined towards Marton fforbes-Hamilton. While Mrs Peel was occupied at the honey hut, he might just pay an unobtrusive, and uninvited, visit to Marton’s residence at the lodge.


	6. Night Moves

The cocktail party, and ensuing buffet dinner, had passed largely without incident. During one of her circuits of the room, Audrey had overheard Marjory subjecting Richard to her full repertoire of bird calls and, for a moment, had considered rescuing him.

But, she told herself, it was only fair that Marjory be allowed an unimpeded shot at the charismatic Richard DeVere. And if he had taken a fancy to Marjory’s pretty face, it was best he knew what he’d be letting himself in for.

Judging by his expression of polite bemusement, Marjory’s physical attractions were being somewhat outweighed by her enthusiastic impersonation of a linnet.

A far less amusing encounter came when she stepped out onto the terrace, taking in the night-scented stocks and woodbine on the air. Clouds scudded across the sky, silver moonlight streaking the grounds of Grantleigh before disappearing again into inky blackness. It was a glorious night, peaceful; and then Marton grabbed hold of her hand.

‘Audrey.’

‘Oh!’ Heart hammering, she pulled in a breath that shook though her chest. ‘What?’

‘Time you gave me an answer.’

‘Not now.’

‘Yes, now!’ She tried to shake herself free but he took hold of her arms, fingers biting into the flesh. In a way it could have been flattering, but she wasn’t convinced that it was her he wanted so badly. ‘We could announce it tonight. All our friends here…’

‘And strangers,’ Audrey murmured.

In the dim light she could see a nasty expression cross his face, the small eyes narrowing. ‘Yes…’ And then he focused on her again. ‘It makes sense, you and me, you know that. Both of us here at Grantleigh. We belong here, Audrey. We belong together.’

Audrey had always been a practical person and she was quite willing to take the practical approach to all things in her life. And Marton was right, their marriage would make a lot of sense. He may have sold off Grantleigh almost before he had actually owned it, but he had stuck by her ever since and he hadn’t been entirely disastrous in helping her with the honey business. After all, he had set up the Cavendish deal.

Cavendish. And Richard DeVere.

She wouldn’t have her head turned and her life turned upside down by one conversation with a good-looking stranger who had a line in easy charm and a seductive smile.

‘I need time.’

There was a flare of desperation in his eyes and then his shoulders sagged. ‘All right.’ He moved in to kiss her. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and her stomach roiled; Audrey turned her head slightly and his lips landed wetly at the corner of her mouth.

He went back inside.

Audrey took a few moments more on the terrace, pushing down the tightness in her throat and the pressure building behind her eyes. She smoothed down her hair, her hands running over the lines of her dress and then she stepped back through the french windows.

In a dark corner of the terrace, a small red light glowed, scented smoke twining lazily around it. Richard DeVere took a long draw on his cigar, letting the breath out slowly. He had not intended to eavesdrop; he had been about to make himself known to his hostess when Marton had appeared and retreat would have made his presence obvious in what was an embarrassingly private – and rather ugly – scene.

He remained in the shadows for some time, until his cigar was down to the butt. He extinguished it, unfolded himself from his seat and returned to the party.

* * *

It was a little after midnight when John Steed and Emma Peel met in the corridor outside of their respective rooms and, wordlessly, started for the main hall. Apart from the creaks of the house settling for the night, there was silence. Emma followed her partner to the drawing room and one of the french windows that gave access to the lawns beyond and was a much easier method of egress than the front door, which had been locked up for the night.

Steed rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, a whisper in her ear. ‘A direct line through the gap in the trees.’

She saw the spot, nodded once and jogged lightly across the grass towards the tree line.

He watched her until the graceful figure was swallowed by shadow and then turned his attention towards the lodge. It was an attractive building at the end of the drive. And a good place to keep an eye on everything that was going on at the manor, he thought. It was in complete darkness and the french windows, unlocked, allowed for ease of access.

Once inside, Steed for a few moments, listening. Silence. It was heavy, unbroken, as though the lodge were unoccupied save for himself. Steed extracted a slim pencil-torch from his breast pocket and swung the beam around the room.

Innumerable victims of an enthusiastic taxidermist greeted him, clearly the relics of Marton’s trigger-happy rampage through the last outposts of the British Empire.

It was the writing desk in the corner of the room, however, that drew his attention and he padded silently across the room, ignoring the glassy stares of the inhabitants.

A brief survey of the unlocked drawers showed that there was neither anything incriminating nor of interest. Innocuous invoices; membership cards of clubs. Steed studied these, memorising the names automatically. The locked drawers soon gave in to Steed’s picks and were immediately both interesting and incriminating – although not quite in the way that Steed may have imagined.

The markers for various London gambling houses did not come as a particular surprise. The photographs, however, did.

Girls, many of them very young, in compromising poses. Some had been taken in the room he was standing in.

And then there were the photographs of Audrey. They were certainly not compromising, but they had also clearly been taken without her knowledge. Around the estate, some street scenes that may have been in Taunton. Somehow they were more unsettling than the other images had been and Steed felt the distaste he already had for Marton fforbes-Hamilton sharpen. He replaced the photographs and made a swift, thorough search of the remaining drawers. Apart from unpaid bills, there was nothing and Steed was about to move to the upper floor when he heard the front door rattle.

The beam from the torch extinguished and Steed slipped through the french windows just as the door from the hallway was pushed open and light spilled into the room. Marton made his way, slightly unsteadily, to the drinks tray and didn’t notice the very faint stir of curtains as the window was closed again.

* * *

Once beyond the tree line, Emma slowed her pace and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Her night vision was excellent but even she had to admit that nighttime in the countryside tended to be far more profound than in London.

A full moon touched the scene in silvered light; Emma kept to the shadows as she approached the apiary and as she grew closer she became aware of two things. Somewhere in the darkness ahead there was another body making its way towards the hives, but with considerably less finesse than she. And rumbling beneath the expected sounds of the night shift animals was a low droning buzz that held a menacing note of anger.

Emma paused, head tilted, listening intently. The nocturnal sounds were overridden by the sound of the body treading heavily across the undergrowth ahead of her. She abandoned her listening post and surged forward, saw a dark shape against the lighter background of the honey hut before it was swathed in shadow.

She reached the structure, following its lines and peering into the darkness.

And then a door opened suddenly, nearly catching her in the face, and she met the startled gaze of her hostess.

Emma let out a light breath, smoothed down her hair and smiled blandly. ‘Audrey.’

With her heart still beating a little too rapidly, Audrey did not attempt to hide her irritation. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I thought I’d take a stroll before going to bed. I’m quite keen to see the hives.’

Audrey’s lips compressed, a hard line; she took in Emma’s cobalt blue catsuit – a marked difference from the hot pink shift dress she had been wearing earlier – and looked unconvinced. ‘As a guest you can, naturally, go anywhere you like, but I would really prefer it if you didn’t disturb the hives, especially at night.’

‘Do bees swarm at night?’ Emma asked, remembering the unpleasant buzzing of only a few moments ago.

‘No, they don’t,’ Audrey’s impatience rose. ‘But they’re very sensitive creatures and a disturbance can lead to a hive collapse. And, quite frankly, I can’t afford that.’ Not everyone had inherited a profitable business empire; not that Emma apparently even needed to concern herself all that much with the running of the business, given her seemingly unending dilettante pursuits and her escapades with Steed.

Audrey closed the door of the honey hut firmly. ‘The manor will be locked up for the night when I get back. I take it that you’ve had enough of the night air?’

‘I take it I have.’

Their walk to the manor was conducted in an uneasy silence that neither felt particularly inclined to break. They had never been natural friends. Even so, it was difficult imagining Audrey dealing in murder; but the most unlikely people seemed to get mixed up in the most preposterous schemes, in her experience. And a place like Grantleigh ate money – especially if you didn’t have much of it.

‘How is the honey business?’ Emma asked casually; it sounded unnaturally loud after the prolonged silence.

‘Sticky.’

Emma smiled slightly. ‘Sorry I asked.’

Audrey let out a breath. ‘It’s not bad. We’re building slowly. It’s takes time but so far it feels stable.’

‘If sticky.’

Audrey glanced at her and then smiled.

‘I suppose the deal with Cavendish Foods must have helped.’

‘Yes, it has.’ They were nearly at the manor, grass giving way to gravel that crunched underfoot. Audrey stopped. ‘Richard DeVere… Can I trust him?’

Emma’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘Do you mean business-wise?’

‘Yes, of course. How else would I mean?’ Audrey felt heat rise in her cheeks and was grateful for the darkness.

‘Richard is completely trustworthy,’ Emma said firmly. And then added, ‘In every way.’

A scrunch as Audrey started walking again.

Emma followed her to the kitchen door, waited while it was locked and bolted and they made their way back to the main hall and up the staircase. Audrey wished her a polite goodnight and Emma could feel her steady gaze hitting her between the shoulder blades until she reached the end of the corridor and made the turn towards her own room.

‘Troubled, Mrs Peel?’

Steed’s voice greeted her as soon as she had opened the door. Emma glanced at the window that she had left closed and which was now open. She crossed the room and closed it pointedly. ‘Audrey was at the hut. So that was that.’

‘And?’

‘There was someone else prowling about; they were just ahead of me.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I suppose it could have been Audrey, but I don’t think it was.’

At his ease in a large armchair, Steed steepled his fingers. ‘If I were a betting man-

‘Which you are.’

He inclined his head. ‘I’d put my money on Marton fforbes-Hamilton.’

A brief outline of what had happened; and when he reached the photographs a frown built across Emma’s face.

‘You have to tell her.’

‘Yes. But not yet.’

She sucked in a breath, sharp. ‘Steed…’

He raised one hand, placating. ‘I know. But not yet.’

Emma regarded him wordlessly and then a faint shrug rippled across her shoulders. ‘So, you’ve ruled Richard out of being involved?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.’

Emma claimed her seat at the dressing table again, scrutinised her reflection. ‘He and Audrey seemed to have hit it off.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’ He watched the play of light across her shimmering auburn hair. ‘I have a feeling that we might be simultaneously jilted this weekend.’

‘Speak for yourself. My relationship with Richard is purely platonic.’

‘Ah.’ Steed nodded wisely. ‘Of course.’

Emma twisted around and met his eyes levelly. ‘I’m waiting to go to bed.’

Steed’s expression was one of utter innocence. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Her gaze hardened and he laughed lightly, stood up. ‘Good night, Mrs Peel.’


	7. A Sticky Business

The atmosphere at the breakfast table was not conducive to light conversation. Audrey’s eye was steaming, at best, and when Brabinger had seen to requests for tea or coffee, he had withdrawn and closed the door behind him discreetly.

‘I think I’m owed an explanation.’

‘For what?’ Steed asked brightly, spreading marmalade on his toast.

‘Let’s start with your breaking into the lodge last night, shall we?’

‘Ah.’ He bit into the toast, returned Audrey’s gaze complacently. ‘I didn’t think Marton had noticed.’

‘He probably hasn’t.’ Her words were bitten off, the ring finger of her right hand tapping irately on the table-top. ‘You were seen.’

‘Oh.’

‘Brabinger.’

‘Ah.’

‘Indeed.’

Another bite of toast. ‘Useful fellow.’

‘Very.’ Audrey sat back in her chair, folding her arms. ‘So why don’t you and your fellow insomniac’ – she sent a withering glance at Emma – ‘tell me just what the hell it is you’re doing here?’

‘It’s my fault.’ Richard spoke quietly but there was a heaviness in his words that dragged through the air like stone. ‘At least, it’s on my account.’

Audrey sat very still and he told her about the honey and the bee stings and the men who had died. And when he had finished she was silent for a time. Anyone who knew her well would have recognised the danger signs, like red flags on a beach, that her anger had risen.

Richard DeVere did not know her well, but he knew enough to see the glitter in her eyes and the points of colour in her cheeks and he knew what they meant. Anger sat well on her, he thought; and he was wise enough not to tell her that.

‘I see,’ she said eventually, soft. ‘So, you thought you’d just show up here, sneaking around at night, breaking into private property and accusing me of murder?’

Richard had not actually done any of those things, and from opposite sides of the breakfast table, both Steed and Emma were of the opinion that he showed great forbearance in not pointing that out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But everything I’ve built, everything I have, could be destroyed by this. My whole livelihood is at stake.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘So is mine, from the sound of it! Why didn’t you just tell me?’

‘I didn’t know you. I thought-’ He stopped.

‘What?’

‘I thought you might be involved.’

‘Thought? So, you don’t now?’

‘No.’

‘So kind of you!’ Her tone was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And when did you decide this?’

‘When I met you.’

Anger and surprise collided and Audrey’s first words were accompanied by a sound similar to a valve letting out a rush of air. ‘Oh, well, that’s … fine … then.’

They stared at each other. And for the second time in as many days, they both started slightly when Steed cleared his throat and inserted a question.

‘Audrey, who put you in touch with Cavendish?’

She looked at him blankly for a moment, as though she had entirely forgotten his presence and could now not quite recall who he was.

‘Marton arranged it. He was at school, or Oxford, or something, with one of the board of directors.’

‘Who?’ Richard watched her closely.

Audrey frowned. ‘Gay- something. Gayboy?’

‘Gayforth.’ Richard’s face tightened. ‘No wonder he was so interested in the hold on sales.’

‘What sales?’ Audrey, immediately suspicious.

Richard blew out a breath. ‘Of your honey. What would you have done in my position?’

Emotions warred across her face. ‘Honey, generally, doesn’t sell with a side order of killer bee.’

He couldn’t help the faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. ‘No, but it could be a very novel marketing approach.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘No, it isn’t. I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘What sort of bees do you keep?’ Emma asked the question.

‘Carniolan. They’re extremely docile – it takes a lot before they’d sting someone.’ The dark looks directed at her guests suggested it would rather less for Audrey to do some stinging herself. ‘Ask the Brigadier, if you don’t believe me.’

‘The Brigadier?’

‘Brigadier Lemington. You met him last night,’ Steed informed Richard, with an air of helpfulness. ‘Probably talked at you about cricket.’

‘Oh…’ Richard smiled slightly. ‘Oh, yes.’

A genial old boy, he recalled, who had indeed talked about cricket almost without cessation and whose opinion of Richard had clearly risen upon learning that he was a member of the MCC.

‘But what has he got to do with bees?’

‘He’s a mellitologist,’ Audrey said casually and enjoyed the expression of bewilderment in Richard’s eyes. ‘That means he studies bees.’

‘Oh, I see!’ A cricket-mad bee lover. Well, Richard reflected, there were worse combinations of hobbies.

Audrey, head slightly tilted to one side, regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Do you actually know how honey is made?’

‘Not really. But I am starting to think it’s about time I did.’

‘Never too soon to start,’ Audrey declared and stood up, heading for the door. ‘Come on!’

For a moment there was stillness around the breakfast table and then Richard shrugged and followed her.

‘Keep an eye on them,’ Steed said softly, catching Emma’s elbow as they rose in turn from the table.

She nodded once. ‘Where will you be?’

‘Paying a visit to the Brigadier.’

* * *

‘Steed, my boy!’

Brigadier Lemington’s home was a shrine to his twin passions: cricket and bees. Cricket paraphernalia and memorabilia was in abundance; and where it was not, each item then bore a bee motif.

Steed found him in his study, dressed in cricket whites, drinking a glass of sherry a little on the early side for elevenses (but it was eleven o’clock somewhere) and the air was heavy with the buzzing drone of bees. He looked about curiously – and a little apprehensively – for the source of the sound and relaxed when the Brigadier lifted the needle off the gramophone at his elbow and the noise ceased.

‘Song of the Italian bee,’ the older man said with relish. ‘Marvellous stuff.’

‘Singing in the key of C, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, that’s right!’ The Brigadier was delighted. ‘Drink?’

‘Thank you.’

A glass was duly filled and presented. Steed held it up to the light, admiring the golden colour. The Brigadier watched him closely as he took the first sip.

‘What do you think of that?’

Steed examined the glass again, rolling the taste around his mouth. ‘Nectar.’

A bark of laughter greeted that. ‘Not far wrong! Bet you thought you were getting sherry, eh? Filthy stuff, won’t have it in the house. That’s mead. Only drink worth drinking - outside of brandy.’

‘Make it yourself?’

‘Of course! Wouldn’t trust some other blighter to do it. Use Audrey’s honey. Best beekeeper in the county, is Audrey.’ Having refilled his own glass, the Brigadier settled back in his chair. ‘Took quite a shine to that new chap of hers; seems quite a sound fellow – even if he doesn’t play cricket. Must have put your nose out of joint, eh?’ He chortled into his glass.

Steed smiled benevolently. ‘They make a handsome pair.’ He took more of the mead – it really was quite remarkable. ‘Speaking of Audrey-’

‘Ah!’ The Brigadier tapped the side of his nose. ‘Cherchez la femme…’

‘More cherchez les abeilles.’

‘Eh?’

‘Bees.’

‘Ah!’ His face brightened, keen eyes flickering with an intense interest. ‘Thinking of taking it up?’

‘Not exactly…’

A slow nod greeted this. ‘An enquiry for your, uh, civil service work?’

‘Well, I am a civil servant.’

They exchanged a smile. The war had been a long time ago, and while the Brigadier’s reputation amongst his neighbours was as a kindly, if slightly eccentric, enthusiast for all things cricket- and bee-like, Steed remembered him as a strategist and highly effective gatherer of crucial intelligence. The man had earned the right to indulge his passions however he liked.

‘Audrey tells me her bees are very docile.’

The Brigadier nodded. ‘_Apis Mellifera Carnica_. That’s why beekeepers love ‘em. Produce good honey’ - he raised his nearly-empty glass of mead – ‘and rarely sting. A child could keep ‘em.’

Steed nodded, drained his glass and accepted a refill. ‘Are they likely to swarm?’

‘Not especially. Of course, any hive will swarm under the right conditions, but the Carniolans don’t make a habit of it.’

‘Hm… What sort of bees would make a habit of swarming?’

‘Africanised honey bees,’ the Brigadier replied promptly. ‘Nasty little brutes. People call ‘em killer bees.’

Steed raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought killer bees were just a myth.’

‘Oh, they can kill all right – people as well as animals.’ He watched the almost imperceptible flickers across Steed’s face.

‘Could one sting kill a man?’ He recalled the details from the autopsies of the dead men – all in good health, all with just one sting.

The Brigadier’s lips pushed out. ‘Only if there was already a severe allergy. That’s why beekeepers have to be so careful, though. Multiple stings lead to a build-up of venom in the blood. Makes ‘em more susceptible.’ He eyed Steed’s glass. ‘Here, have a refresher.’

Steed murmured his thanks and then studied the golden liquid in his glass. ‘Do killer bees make honey?’

‘They do; they’re still honey bees.’

‘Is the honey poisonous?’

The Brigadier laughed. ‘No! It’s the venom in the sting that’s the killer, and you don’t get venom in honey. Besides, you don’t get Africanised honey bees in England – too damn cold. The colonies – you know, America – that’s where you’ll find ‘em.’

For the Brigadier, Steed thought with affection, the sun really had never set on the Empire.

‘On Audrey’s account you’re asking all this?’

‘Yes.’

A frown. ‘Not in any trouble, is she?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

A pause, a nod, two glasses drained of their contents. Once more they were refilled.

‘Now…’ The Brigadier sat forward and stared at Steed intently. ‘What do you think our chances are against the Windies?’

Steed sighed.

The Brigadier nodded gloomily. ‘Yes. That’s what I was afraid of.’

* * *

‘Why Bee Eater Honey?’

‘Because of the bird.’

‘Ah.’ Richard nodded wisely. ‘What bird?’

‘The bee eater, of course!’ Audrey looked at him, appalled. ‘It was in the newspapers.’

‘Rare is it?’

‘Extremely. It’s usually too cold for them. But we had that very hot summer and a pair stopped off here on their way to… Spain … or Africa. Or somewhere.’

‘Miss Frobisher must have been delighted.’

‘Oh, she was,’ Audrey agreed. ‘She was the first one to see them.’ And she saw the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes and had the unpleasant feeling that he knew perfectly well that while Marjory could have reeled of the genus in Latin and all of the finer attributes, Audrey could just about manage the name and the fact that it had feathers. But she rallied. ‘I started selling jars to the people coming to see the nest.’

Richard laughed at that. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart!’

‘Am I?’

‘Of course! Never miss an opportunity to make a sale, first rule of business. Well, my business.’ His admiration was undisguised and Audrey found herself smiling in response. That had a particularly devastating effect on Richard DeVere: Audrey did not realise just how bewitching her smile could be, otherwise she might have deployed it with more care. Or not.

But then Richard DeVere was having a particularly devastating effect on her, even when he wasn’t smiling. Which meant that while Audrey had been conducting the tour of the honey business, Emma had been largely overlooked by both of them, which suited her purposes entirely – even if it did leave her feeling slightly put out. Richard had asked endless questions, which Audrey seemed only too happy to answer. It was not a pairing that Emma would have envisaged and yet, somehow, seeing them together it seemed almost inevitable.

‘Don’t you worry about getting stung?’

‘Bees don’t sting virtuous people,’ Audrey replied, her blue eyes serious and steady.

His lips twitched. ‘That sounds like a saying from old Czechoslovakia.’ A frown rippled across Audrey’s face and he smiled slightly, shaking his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘If _you’re _worried about getting stung, it says a lot about your conscience.’

‘My conscience is perfectly clear,’ Richard stated with dignity.

Audrey narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Hm…’

His lips curved upwards and she could feel her own tug at the corners in response. It was quite ridiculous, she told herself, the effect that she allowed him to have on her. And yet she didn’t seem able to do anything to stop it.

‘This was our first extractor,’ she said, resting her hand on the smooth curved side of a battered-looking metal drum. And she kept her chin high as she looked at him, kept her tone business-like and ignored as best she could the glint in his eye as though he had a permanent, private joke that she badly wanted to hear.

He looked at it uncertainly. ‘It looks very, uh … well-used.’

Audrey laughed. ‘Yes, it is, rather. We use an automated one now, but this still works.’

Richard watched, fascinated, as Audrey placed a frame of uncapped honeycomb into the metal drum and started to crank the handle.

‘Centrifugal force,’ she explained over the noise, ‘spins the honey out.’

It looked as though it took some effort and Richard automatically reached to take the handle from her. ‘Here, let me do that.’

Audrey had never been a woman to rely on anyone else to do anything for her (even had she been so inclined, life had never worked out that way), but she was also not averse to avoiding unnecessary physical exertion. And if a personable male was willing to take it over, so much the better. The crank on the extractor was extremely stiff and it took all her strength to move it, and she was no weakling. Marton had never volunteered and Old Ned had always looked on the verge of a stroke after one minute. Richard DeVere looked as though he found it no more strenuous than swatting a fly. It was oddly attractive. Audrey told herself that it was a purely primal response to a display of masculine strength – but the fact that he didn’t seem to be showing off and was still cheerfully asking her questions about beekeeping made it all the more enticing.

‘That should be enough,’ she said eventually; and held an empty jar under the tap. ‘There: you’ve made honey.’ There was genuine delight in his face as he watched the amber-coloured liquid fill the jar and Audrey felt something in her chest tighten, hold, a moment that she wanted to keep in her mind. His eyes, golden flecks dancing in the dark depths, met hers and she caught her breath.

‘I’ve never made anything before,’ he said softly.

‘You’ve made a whole empire for yourself, haven’t you?’

One corner of his mouth turned upwards. ‘That isn’t the same thing.’ He reached out and ran one finger down the side of the glass she was holding.

‘It’s warm!’

She smiled. ‘Yes, it would be. And it should be very good, the bees have been feeding on the lavender lately.’

‘Does that make a difference?’

‘Of course! The honey is always different depending on what they’ve been feeding on.’ Audrey dipped her fingers into the the honey, tasted it. ‘Lavender,’ she said, a little indistinct.

He watched as she licked the remnants from her fingers, the tip of her tongue darting out to catch a golden droplet at the corner of her mouth, her lips coated with a sweet, sticky sheen.

It was mesmerising. And he felt a sudden ache of longing that left him breathless.

‘You should try it.’ She held the jar out to him, another of those bewitching smiles. Eve with the apple couldn’t have been alluring and with his eyes still on her face, Richard dipped his fingers into the honey jar, felt its warm viscosity and then tasted its sweetness.

There was a hint of bitterness in the taste, something sharp and floral.

Her eyebrows raised. ‘Well?’ She wanted him to like it. It suddenly seemed unreasonably important that he should.

‘That’s the best honey I’ve ever tasted.’

Audrey smiled, and then laughed. ‘Good. But you’ve also managed to get it on your face.’

He scowled and rubbed ineffectually at the wrong cheek.

‘Here.’ She stepped closer to him, reached up, her thumb glancing against his skin. ‘Oh. I think I’m just spreading it. On the upside, it is very good for the skin.’

He laughed slightly, his eyes dancing again. ‘Maybe you could sell it to barbers as a replacement for hot towels.’

Her fingers still rested against his cheek; an intimate gesture that both seemed quite comfortable with and neither wanted to break. There was an easiness in the way that they stood so close to one another, in the way that they smiled and laughed and talked low and soft.

They looked like lovers, Emma thought; and she wasn’t the only one. Marton fforbes-Hamilton had entered the hut, evidently in search of his cousin and he stood watching her and Richard. Jealousy, as Emma had previously pointed out, was an ugly emotion; and it was there, in all its ugliness, clearly imprinted in Marton’s face.

Emma watched him watching them and felt the shudder of unease he caused her sharpen into something more tangible. More immediate. She looked at the pair, so oblivious to anyone who would wish them harm, and she felt afraid for them.


	8. The Sting in the Tale

‘…and we had to put up a perimeter fence and have a twenty-four-hour watch – oh, it was terribly exciting!’ Marjory finished breathlessly, smiling up into Richard’s face.

‘Yes, it sounds it. But the bee eaters were all right?’

‘Oh, yes! They had chicks and then once they’d fledged, they moved on.’

‘I still say Mrs Patterson’s cat got them,’ Audrey said heartlessly. It should not have been so maddeningly annoying to see Marjory sitting close to Richard on the swing chair, but it was. Even more annoying that she was holding all of his attention with her story about that stupid bird.

‘Oh, Aud, it didn’t,’ Marjory said, distressed.

‘Well, there were an awful lot of feathers at the base of that tree…’

‘We would have seen it!’ She looked to Richard for confirmation. ‘Wouldn’t we?’

‘Uh…’ He blinked at her, disconcerted. ‘Yes. Yes, of course you would.’

‘See!’

‘Richard wasn’t even there,’ Audrey said firmly. And his eyes moved to her face, a faint smile, and she realised how easily his first name had slipped out.

‘He’s got more sense than you have,’ Marjory replied, determined to both defend her own position and maintain the friendly relations she had managed to establish with Audrey’s handsome houseguest.

A few feet away, Steed and Emma kept an eye on proceedings.

‘What did the pathologist say?’

‘High levels of bee venom in all three bodies,’ Steed replied. ‘Far more than would be expected from a single sting.’

Emma thought it over. ‘Can they tell how it was introduced?’

Steed shook his head.

‘So the honey could have been contaminated…’

‘Indeed. Which brings us back to Cavendish.’ Emma’s eyes snapped back to his face. He shrugged. ‘They did dispatch the jars to their final destination.’

Emma shook her head, auburn hair burnished in the midday sun. She loathed circular conversations. ‘Who has taken over the companies now?’

Steed’s head tilted. ‘An excellent question.’

‘They’d be three people with motives.’

‘True. The question is, how would they get hold of the means? It has to be either someone here or at Cavendish.’

‘Well, there’s my chief suspect,’ Emma murmured, her eyes hardening as she tracked Marton fforbes-Hamilton across the lawn and mount the steps to the patio. A moment and then his voice rang out with a particularly odious tone.

‘God, not that bee eater story again. We’re all sick to death of it.’

He regarded Marjory contemptuously and she shrank, wounded, her cheeks flushing pink in embarrassment.

‘I thought it was fascinating,’ Richard said pleasantly, casually laying his arm along the back of the seat so that Marjory was in the curve of a comforting half-embrace. He smiled at her. ‘You’re very knowledgable, Miss Frobisher.’

‘Oh gosh…’ Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, pleasure this time, and her eyes shone. ‘And… you can call me Marjory,’ she added shyly.

‘Marjory. And you must call me Richard.’

‘Oh gosh.’

‘You were telling me something about badgers last night,’ he continued easily, ‘but you didn’t finish.’

Audrey watched as Marjory blossomed into a distracting prettiness under Richard DeVere’s gentle questioning and apparently genuine interest. Marjory was resilient, but Audrey knew she was also sensitive, vulnerable, and while she did have a tendency to bully her old school friend at times, it was a rhythm to their relationship that had been there their whole lives and Marjory usually ignored Audrey’s more overbearing venting of her feelings. It was something they both understood. Audrey hated anyone hurting Marjory and she felt genuine gratitude for Richard’s diffusing of the situation.

She tried to tell herself that Marton hadn’t really meant it, but couldn’t. Not quite. He had never been a clever man, nor particularly kind, but she had never thought him a bad one. But now… Despite the balmy warmth of the summer day, Audrey shivered against a feeling of sudden cold.

‘When are you going back to London?’ Marton, demanding, a petulant note in his voice.

A beat, during which Richard turned his head slowly and looked at Marton with an air of faint amusement that was far more grating than any insult could have been. ‘Monday, probably. Why, do you need a lift? I’d be quite happy to drop you somewhere.’

Marjory choked back a laugh and Audrey tried to suppress a smile while Marton wore the look of a man who was vaguely aware that he had just been insulted, but isn’t certain just how it had happened.

He seemed to make his mind up about something. ‘I’m getting a drink.’

‘Oh, nothing for me, thanks,’ Audrey called after him as he stalked across to the side-table with its collection of decanters and glasses. He bumped against the swing seat, where Marjory had become aware of Richard’s arm lying so close to her shoulders and was inching her way closer to him. Her eyes ran over him, taking in every detail of what was, to her, absolute male perfection. And then she gasped slightly.

‘Oh, do be careful,’ she said, ‘there’s a bee on you.’

‘Hm?’

‘On your arm.’

Richard glanced down, saw the insect and swatted at it irritably – and then let out a sharp exclamation. Marjory gasped again.

‘Did it sting you?’

‘Yes!’ His hand clamped over the sting, gritting his teeth against a pain that felt out of all proportion for something so small. He looked up at Audrey and tried to force a smile. ‘I thought you said your bees don’t sting virtuous people.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t one of mine.’

It all seemed to happen very quickly after that; later, when she was trying to put it all together, Audrey could only catch at fleeting impressions. Marjory, predictably, fussing around, searching through her handbag for an antihistamine; Steed stooping to pick something from the ground; Emma watchful, her eyes suddenly clouded.

And Marton, standing away from them all, a strange mixture of triumph and terror in his face.

‘Is it very painful?’ Marjory asked, casting herself in the Florence Nightingale role.

‘It is, actually,’ Richard said, ‘but I dare say I’ll’ -he cleared his throat- ‘I’ll … live.’ He coughed, pulling in air that didn’t seem to quite make it into his lungs.

‘Let me see.’ Emma, her voice sharp, and she pulled his arm towards her. It was an angry swelling, and he still looked as though he couldn’t get enough air. ‘Richard, you don’t have an allergy?’

He shook his head. ‘Never … have … before.’

‘You need to see a doctor,’ Emma declared, all action, already pushing him up out of his seat. Richard tried to resist, but then gave in.

‘Do stop fluttering, Marjory,’ Audrey said, irritably, as they all moved through the house to the front steps and Richard’s car. Emma, in the driving seat, had pulled away before the car doors were entirely closed, gravel flying up under the tyres as she gunned the Jaguar down the driveway.

‘Where’s Marton?’ Audrey asked softly, eyes still on the receding car.

‘Pouring himself another drink, last I saw,’ Steed replied.

Her shoulders were already set high, but she stiffened at that. Audrey’s face hardened. She looked at Steed for a moment, then turned and walked back into the house.


	9. Petrichor

Steed located Brigadier Lemington in the Long Gallery of his home, which doubled as a batting cage. Given that most of the portraits that adorned the walls were of former captains of the England cricket team, rather than the expected ancestors, it didn’t seem out of place.

‘A definite six,’ Steed announced, as a ball passed scant inches from his bowler hat.

‘Eh?’ The Brigadier scowled at the intruder and then smiled broadly, brandishing his bat in greeting. ‘Twice in one day?’

‘It’s the pleasure of your company, Brigadier.’

The older man put down his bat, pulled off the heavy gloves and wandered towards the drinks table that was placed, to Steed’s expert eye, at Silly Mid On. Two glasses were poured, the liquid of a deeper hue but still carrying the unmistakeable richness in aroma that Steed now identified as mead. The Brigadier watched him expectantly as Steed took his first sip and his eyes widened slightly.

‘Has a kick, eh?’

Steed, feeling as though the inside of his skull was being given a brisk acid bath, blinked twice. The taste, however, was not objectionable. He smiled. ‘Not bad.’

The Brigadier laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘I call that one the Stinger!’

The gesture did not improve the sensation in his head. It was also not improved, Steed thought, by the way that the portrait of W.G. Grace was looking down at him.

‘Come over for some battin’ practice?’ The Brigadier asked hopefully.

Steed shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. I’d like you to take a look at this.’ From his pocket he pulled out a handkerchief and unfolded it carefully, holding out the contents to the Brigadier.

‘That’s a dead bee.’

Steed felt a flicker of irritation. ‘Yes, I know. I was hoping you could tell me what kind.’

The Brigadier rooted through the depths of his costume and pulled out a large magnifier.

‘I say!’

‘Recognise it?’

‘No! Never seen anything like it before.’ The man sounded delighted.

‘Oh. So, it isn’t a killer bee?’

‘I didn’t say that…’ He looked up at Steed, his face grotesquely distended through the magnifier. ‘It doesn’t have its stinger.’

‘No. It stung Richard DeVere.’

‘Audrey’s fella?’

Another stab of irritation. ‘Yes.’

The Brigadier blew out a breath. ‘All right, is he?’

‘Mrs Peel took him to a doctor.’

‘Allergy?’

‘He says not.’

Silence, and the Brigadier studied the remnants of the bee lying in the palm of Steed’s hand. ‘Hm…’

‘Do you know what it is?’

The Brigadier straightened. ‘It has some of the characteristics of the Africanised honey bee, but they’re … exaggerated.’

Steed looked at him, frowning slightly. So, he thought, was Dr Grace. ‘Exaggerated?’

‘Selective breeding. In theory – and just in theory, mind – it would be possible to breed a bee that’s more aggressive and has deadlier venom than would occur naturally.’

Steed looked at the tiny scrap of torn wings and legs with distaste. ‘Is that what this is?’

‘Possibly. Leave it with me.’

A miniature assassin who self-destructed immediately the job was done – that was all they needed, Steed thought wearily.

* * *

‘Thirteen grapefruit segments this morning, Brabinger.’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘Not twelve.’

‘No, Madam.’

‘I knew something awful was going to happen.’

Brabinger regarded her sympathetically and placed a plate of sandwiches at her elbow. Audrey looked up at him enquiringly. ‘Madam missed lunch.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said.

But eventually, he noticed with satisfaction, and probably without being quite aware of it herself, Audrey took one and started to eat.

‘Will Mrs Peel and Mister Steed be prolonging their visit?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Ah.’ One syllable, which held a world of relief. The immediate need for an Alka-Seltzer receded somewhat. ‘And Mister DeVere?’

‘Not that I know of,’ she repeated.

‘Oh.’ Disappointed this time. Audrey glanced up at him curiously and Brabinger cleared his throat softly. ‘It had occurred to me that a long drive back to London might not be advisable at the moment.’

Brabinger was many things and while no-one could fault him on his discretion, he was not notably subtle.

‘I’ll ask.’

‘Very good, Madam.’

A silhouette darkened the doorway, easily identifiable by the bowler hat and tightly furled umbrella. Brabinger felt his queasiness return and, receiving a nod from Audrey, left them to it.

‘Any news?’ Steed took a seat beside her.

‘Emma phoned a short while ago: Richard’s fine. They’ll be back soon.’

‘Good.’

Audrey stared into the middle distance. ‘A civil servant, you said, when we met.’

A faint smile at his lips and an injection of warmth in his voice. But his eyes were wary and watchful. ‘It isn’t a lie.’

She let out a breath. ‘It isn’t quite the truth, though, is it? I mean, it isn’t as though you’re sitting behind a desk working out which wood is the best one for frames for social housing. Just because you don’t lie doesn’t mean you’re being honest.’

There was an uneasy silence.

‘I have to go back to London for a few hours,’ he said. ‘Enquiries that are best made in person.’

Audrey nodded.

‘You’re probably wishing I won’t come back.’

‘Yes, in a way.’

Steed’s eyes widened slightly. He had meant it as a joke but there was nothing humorous in Audrey’s face. She turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, John. I know this situation isn’t your fault, or Emma’s, but part of me wishes that neither of you had ever come here.’

He studied her for a moment and then said quietly, ‘You left DeVere off that list.’

A pause. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ Audrey stood up. ‘Help yourself to the sandwiches. I need some air.’

* * *

‘I am capable of driving,’ Richard said.

‘No operating heavy machinery.’

‘This car is not heavy.’

One corner of her mouth turned up and she shook her head slightly. ‘You really are a shockingly bad patient.’

Richard let out a breath, sat back against his seat. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He reached across and briefly rested his hand on hers. ‘Thanks, Emma.’

She flashed him a smile.

The Jaguar purred along the country roads sweetly and while Emma maintained a sedate pace, she enjoyed the promise of power and surge of speed that she was holding in check. It really was a beautifully responsive machine.

Richard, however, seemed less responsive; his eyes were hooded the in way they always were when he was deep in thought.

‘Everything all right?’

He roused himself. ‘I keep thinking about Lytton and the others. What happened to them… A horrible way to die.’

‘I can’t think that there are many good ones.’

‘Probably not.’ But they would have known what was happening to them, he thought, felt every breath that they couldn’t take. As they climbed the rise before the final sweep down to the manor, Richard again placed his hand on hers where it lay on the steering wheel. ‘Emma, I think I’ll walk back from here.’

She looked at him, returned her gaze to the road and the car slowed. ‘Watch out for any bees.’

He grinned at her. ‘They’d better watch out for me.’

Clouds scudded across the sky, the landscape alternating between jewel-like hues and hazy shadow. There was a promise of rain behind the breeze that swept down into the valley. A fresh, clean air with a bite to it and Richard took in great lungfuls of it, feeling the weight of his London life ease away. Somehow all of that felt less real, less substantial than the damp grass beneath his feet and the leaves sighing on the branches. It was, perhaps, a fantasy, but it was one that he was more than happy to believe in.

And then he became aware of another figure wandering across the fields, edging down from a line of young saplings. And maybe she was also a fantasy, but, just like the rich earth and the rain-scented air and the sky above, he believed in her.

‘Audrey!’

Making her way down from Peregrine’s Folly, Audrey hadn’t expected to see anyone about – except, perhaps, for Old Ned, who seemed incapable of leaving any of the estate work undone, even on a Saturday. It was a place she had always gone to when she needed to sort out her own thoughts. But they were so scrambled that even her favourite place in the world didn’t bring her peace.

Until a voice called her name and everything suddenly seemed very simple, as though she had been waiting her whole life for him to walk towards her.

‘Richard.’ She smiled up at him as he reached her. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right.’

‘Yes, so am I.’

She felt as though she should apologise. An unfamiliar feeling. The words rose to her lips.

‘I’m so sorry, Audrey.’

She blinked. ‘What?’

‘All this’ -he gestured helplessly- ‘I wouldn’t have dragged you into it.’

‘You didn’t. I suppose I was in it already, I just didn’t know it.’

Richard studied her face, its lines and delicate modelling, and the clear blue eyes that met his with utter frankness. ‘Audrey-’

Thunder interrupted him, a low rumble that seemed to shake the very ground. A fat splash of rain, then another and the sky was split by lightening.

‘This way!’ Audrey grabbed his hand and they ran.

Running would probably not keep them any drier, Richard thought, but he followed her to the shelter of a barn. Stacks of hay, a sweet dryness on the air coming from the gloomy recesses.

‘Ugh…’ Audrey peeled off her jacket, the light wool feeling sodden and slimy.

Richard’s shirt was plastered to him. He ran his hands over his hair, pushing the wet strands from his face. The landscape was a haze of grey and green, watercolours swirled together. Standing beside him in the doorway, Audrey drank in the scent of heat released from the newly-wet earth.

‘I love that smell.’

‘Petrichor.’

She looked up at him, shaking water out of her hair with her fingers – and was, if she were honest, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt had moulded itself to his shoulders and chest and the way the rain had made his hair curl over his collar. ‘What?’

He smiled. ‘That’s what that smell is called. Petrichor.’

Audrey nodded. ‘Oh.’

Richard glanced ruefully at their soaked state. ‘This is probably the most eventful weekend in the country I’ve ever had.’

‘Well, at least it’s good clean rain.’

He put his eyebrows up. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the rain in London isn’t?’

‘It most certainly is not! I got rained on in London once – I was black from head to foot.’

‘It is rather sooty,’ Richard admitted. His eyes were drawn back to the rain-lashed view. ‘This is beautiful.’

His voice was soft and Audrey watched him curiously. ‘Do you like the countryside?’

‘I do. From when I was a child, I think.’

‘Holidays?’

‘No, it was during the war.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You were an evacuee?’

‘Cardboard tag and everything.’

‘Where was your family?’

‘East End. Most of it was gone by the time I got back. And so was my father.’ Audrey stared at him wordlessly and he smiled slightly. ‘One of the raids. He was one of the wardens – that’s how I learned about irony. Then it was just me and my mother.’ He took a breath. ‘She’d love it here.’

It was dizzying keeping up with him. Each time she thought that she had got hold of his edges he would change again. ‘You should bring her down one weekend,’ Audrey said, on impulse.

His head tilted. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘Oh, I never say things I don’t mean.’

Richard seemed to study her for a long time, the gold flecks in his eyes darkening. ‘I know how difficult it can be to start up a business from nothing,’ he said, another unexpected shift. ‘I admire it … you … a lot, Audrey.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Another of those glinting smiles. ‘Like I said: a woman after my own heart.’

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks under the intensity of his gaze, wandered further into the barn in search of somewhere to hang up her jacket, eventually settling on the handles of a wooden hand-cart. ‘It shouldn’t last long, the rain.’

‘Optimism in the face of British weather.’ Richard stated. An ominous creaking from the loft above their heads and he looked up at it warily. Creaking and a rustling sound; rats – or something larger, he thought, and rubbed at the bandage on his arm.

Audrey’s eyes were drawn to it and she felt a different sort of burn in her cheeks. ‘Does it hurt very much?’

He laughed self-consciously, dropped his hands. ‘No, not really. I’m just milking it for all it’s worth, now.’

‘Well, if it’s sympathy you’re after, it’s Marjory you want.’

His lips curved. ‘I don’t. She’s very nice but she isn’t really my type.’

The creaking rose to an alarming pitch; Richard looked up sharply and then flung his arms around Audrey, pulling both of them down.

Audrey was aware of something large falling from the loft above, one of the hay bales, knew it had struck Richard’s back when she felt the force of it jolt through his body. Their landing, at least, was soft and almost immediately they both struggled to sit up.

‘Are you all right?’ Richard, anxious.

She stared at him wildly, her voice rising. ‘What were you thinking?’

He stared back at her, temper suddenly snapping in his eyes. ‘Oh, well, next time a damm great block of hay nearly falls on you, I’ll just let it squash you, shall I?’

‘You could have been killed!’ And she kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

When Audrey pulled back, they were both breathing fast and Richard wore an expression of surprise that matched hers.

‘I’m sorry!’ It came out as a gasp.

‘I’m not.’ His hand cupped the back of her head, pulled her towards him. His lips were warm, firm, against hers and she yielded under them. She grasped his wrist, holding on, feeling the strength and solidity in his arm, in the fingers that slid into her hair. He tasted bittersweet, like black coffee with a hint of sugar.

‘You’re not really going to marry that idiot, are you?’ His face was still so close to hers, his breath warm against her skin. Her lips tingled.

‘That isn’t any of your business,’ she said, and she couldn’t meet his gaze.

‘Isn’t it?’

She looked up at him then. Took a breath and then another. ‘I don’t know.’

Her arms around his neck. More than anything in the world she needed to kiss him again and her body collided with his. Her momentum sent them both sprawling back into the hay and he caught her, held her, not breaking the contact with her lips.

His arms locked around her, a vice that kept her to him and she couldn’t stop the little sigh of contentment in the back of her throat. Her hands grasped his shoulders, moved across his chest and she was acutely aware of the physicality of him, of the unexpected leanness and strength of his body beneath hers.

Warmth pulsed through her, waves of it and she was sure he could feel it too, felt him smile against her lips and then the graze of his teeth.

The sweet animalic scent of the hay filled her head and then another scent, something light and spicy that was his cologne and then something behind that, the scent of his skin and for a moment she buried her face in the curve of his neck, drinking him in.

He moved them, rolling her beneath him, she felt the hay press soft prickles through her thin blouse and the glorious weight of him against her.

His hands either side of her head, he looked down at her and there was something deeper than desire in his eyes. Audrey trailed her fingertips across his cheekbone and when he kissed her again it was slower, a languorous exploration of her mouth.

His lips traced her jawline, her throat, down to the skin exposed by the open neck of her blouse and she shivered against him. She should push him away, tell him this had to stop. She pulled his head back to hers and reclaimed his mouth.

When they parted again, his forehead rested against hers. She felt light-headed, her nerves jangling, skin flushed with a warmth that felt like fire.

‘What time is it?’ she asked suddenly, twisting to look at his watch, and then started to scramble away. ‘I have to go. I have Meals-on-Wheels.’

‘Audrey… Audrey!’ He caught up with her at the doorway. ‘Audrey, wait.’ She turned, chin raising, preparing to argue down whatever he was going to say; he held up her jacket. ‘You forgot this.’

‘Oh…’

He helped her on with it, shaking it out before sliding it up her arms. ‘You might also, uh…’

‘What?’

He smiled, a lazy amusement – or maybe affection – in his face. ‘Your hair.’ She raised a hand, felt the loose pieces of hay that had twined themselves through. ‘Here.’ He knocked her hands away and pulled them out, studying her when he had finished. ‘Now you’re perfect.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said gravely. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders and her head tilted back, unresisting, when he brushed his lips with an aching tenderness against hers.

Audrey walked back towards the manor, blinking against the sunshine that had returned with an extra force after the cloudburst. Every colour looked brighter, raindrops clinging to grass and petals glinting, prism-like, under the clear light.

And she could feel his gaze on her with every step and taste him on her lips.


	10. Reap What You Sow

‘When are you back?’

The line crackled angrily; it was a shockingly bad connection and Emma strained to hear Steed’s voice over the waves of static.

‘_Later tonight. What’s happening?’_

‘Nothing much. But there’s a definite atmosphere.’

_‘All right. I don’t need to tell you to keep an eye out.’_

‘No, you don’t.’

It could have been a laugh, or more static.

‘_See if the name Sailing Club means anything to anyone.’_

‘Sailing? Should mean something to a lot of people, I should think.’

_‘Not sailing. S-E-I-L-L-E-A-N. Seillean.’_

‘Right.’

_‘Goodbye, Mrs Peel.’_

* * *

The atmosphere that Emma had identified earlier was a noticeable undercurrent at dinner. More noticeable to some than others, she had to admit: Marjory, delighted to see Richard recovered, was even more delighted to find herself sitting next to him at dinner and was cheerfully chattering away.

Brigadier Lemington was similarly pleased, as he had been seated beside Emma and was quite enamoured of the elegant red-head. Emma was practiced in the art of indulging gentlemen of a certain age and was willing to keep the conversation to the twin topics of cricket and bees. They had moved onto the genus names and a more broadly lexicographical discussion, which gave Emma her opening.

‘I came across an interesting word earlier.’ Speaking loudly enough that the others could hear, but still aiming her most charming smile at the Brigadier. ‘Seillean.’

The Brigadier beamed. ‘Did you, by Jove!’

Her eyebrows arched. ‘Do you know what it means?’

‘’Course I do! Gaelic word for bee.’

Emma took some of her wine. ‘I see… Did you know that, Audrey?’

‘It’s a new one on me,’ Audrey replied, not particularly interested.

‘You know, I think it’s also the name of a club in London?’ She seemed to be addressing Richard and he returned her a bemused look. It was not, Emma thought, her most subtle performance.

‘Is it?’

The Brigadier was nodding. ‘Wear yellow and black striped jackets. Hideous.’

‘Oh, are you a member?’

The shake of the head was emphatic. ‘Not me! Not my sort of crowd. Marton’s a member, though.’

‘What? N-no. No, I’m not.’

The Brigadier peered at him. ‘Ain’t you? Just as well – frightful lot of bounders from what I’ve heard. Best stickin’ to the Sheridan.’

‘Or the MCC,’ Richard added, raising his glass in salute.

A delighted smile met this. ‘Absolutely, my boy, absolutely!’

There were beads of perspiration on Marton’s forehead, and not all connected to the wine that he was drinking at a ferocious rate.

Audrey watched him for a moment, moved the decanter of wine beyond his reach.

The conversation moved on.

* * *

Audrey welcomed the bite of cool air against her cheeks. The evening had felt unending and her face ached from holding in place a smile that felt more like a rictus-grin.

The night was soft and sweet-scented after the rain, the sky clear and ordinarily she would have enjoyed the waxing moon and pin-prick stars.

Too many thoughts in her head, and too many of them were troubling. She felt as though she had lived an entire year in one day. Lost in that tangle of unhappiness, she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were nearly on top of her.

‘Audrey.’

She turned to face him. In the moonlight, Richard DeVere looked more like a figure of romantic fantasy than any decent man had a right to. It was too distracting, too confusing, every time she looked at him, but she made herself do it.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Audrey smiled thinly. ‘I’ll save you the trouble: it was a moment of madness; you don’t know what came over you; it will never happen again.’

A short war between surprise, amusement and frustration played itself out across his features. Amusement won.

‘No. The exact opposite on all points, actually. But while we’re on the subject, you started it.’

She was outraged. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just who kissed who?’

‘Whom.’

Richard suppressed a smile. ‘Let’s put that to one side for now. I wanted to talk to you about what happened before that.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean when that great block of hay-’

‘Hay bale.’

Richard blew out a breath. ‘Fine, hay bale, nearly fell on us. Just before that I thought I heard something, or someone, up in the- Are you listening to me?’

Audrey’s eyes came back to his face. ‘Wh- I- I’m sorry, I thought I saw someone going into the honey hut.’

‘Oh?’ Mild irritation in his voice.

‘No-one should be in there at this time.’

‘Oh.’

They looked at each other, and then both started across the field to the hut. The simple wooden structure suddenly seemed much larger, looming out of the darkness. A light glowed in one of the windows and Audrey paused before pushing the door open cautiously, the familiar rich scent of honey a consoling one as she moved forward, Richard close behind her and she welcomed the feel of his comforting solidity.

There was someone else there, moving around in the semi-gloom given by a table lamp. And a buzzing sound on the air, a rasping drone that set her teeth on edge. A man bent over one of the work-benches, a range of jars spread before him and what looked like a phial of clear liquid in his hand. Audrey flicked the light switch and he started violently, spinning around to face them, his face slack and damp with perspiration.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was quiet.

Marton fforbes-Hamilton stared at his cousin, his tongue flicking out to moisten his flaccid lower lip. ‘Nothing.’

‘Marton…’ Audrey shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to believe it. Tell me you’re not involved in this.’

‘Audrey.’ Richard’s voice, so close to her his breath stirred her hair and she felt his touch on her arm. She followed his gaze and saw the source of that angry buzzing: a Perspex cube holding a small amount of honeycomb and a number of bees, small and dark, their wings beating furiously. Audrey caught her breath and looked back at Marton.

‘It wasn’t my idea.’

He had always been a terrible liar. Audrey felt a pressure behind her eyes, a constriction in her throat and she swallowed hard. When she spoke, her voice sounded scalded. ‘Three men are dead.’

‘I didn’t know anyone would die!’ His febrile gaze landed on Richard and his features twisted. ‘Except for _him_.’

She had known. When she had seen his face, watching them, she had known, but the truth of it then – and now – was horrible. ‘The bee sting…’

Marton laughed sharply. ‘Yes. Didn’t bloody work, though. Mister Indestructible, eh, DeVere? Not even a hay bale to the head worked.’

Richard nodded slowly, his face tightening in anger. ‘So that was you.’ He was still holding Audrey’s arm and she felt his fingers tighten their grip, his body angling as though to shield her. ‘You could have killed her!’

She had known Marton all of her life. Not an easy man to like and she hadn’t always; she still didn’t, entirely, but he was her family and in a way she had relied on him, trusted him. And he had tried to kill Richard, twice, right in front of her. Three people she had never heard of until that morning were dead and all of it led back here, to him. ‘How could you do something like this?’

‘I did it for us!’

Audrey took a step back, trying to put more distance between them. ‘No! There is no us!’

‘No…’ The sweaty desperation in his face turned to a sneer. ‘Be different if I were a millionaire, though, wouldn’t it? Miss High-and-Mighty turns out to be nothing more than a common little gold digger, after all. Even so, I’m not losing out to some jumped-up damn Chesky who doesn’t know his place!’

There was a gun. The aim was unsteady, but Marton was an accomplished hunter and it was pointing straight at Richard. Audrey, instinctive, tried to move forward, but that grip on her arm held her back, pushed her further out of the way.

And then Emma Peel burst from the shadows and the gun fell from Marton’s suddenly nerveless fingers, skittered across the floor. She dealt a series of stunning blows to the man, driving him across the room.

Richard released his hold on Audrey, grabbing for the gun.

‘Do you know how to shoot?’ Audrey demanded.

‘Of course I don’t!’

‘Well I do!’ She snatched it off him – and froze with the gun in her hand. Marton could be sweet, sometimes; or he had been, once, long ago, but those were the times that she remembered now and she couldn’t bring herself to fire at him. She felt Richard’s hand brush hers and she grasped his fingers.

Marton was not a trained fighter, but he was a brawler and he was also bullish and desperate. As Emma rushed at him, he managed to get one hand under her chin, her head snapped up and she fell back, just long enough that he reached a ladder up to the gantry that ran the length of the space. It gave access to the vats used for heating and separating the honey – crucially, it led to the ventilation windows and escape.

Emma threw herself after him, closing in far too quickly, already on the gantry only seconds behind him, her crepe-soled shoes noiseless on the metal. Marton stopped, one arm outstretched, the hand still holding the phial directly over the vat of honey. A wildness in his face and Emma answered it with a calculated risk, spinning suddenly, the ball of her foot striking his wrist. His arm flew back and the phial dropped.

Below, transfixed, Richard and Audrey watched it arc through the air as it fell; and without thinking, Richard released Audrey’s hand, stepped forward, and caught it.

The blow had knocked Marton off balance. For a moment he teetered, arms flailing. Emma made a grab for him but her hands closed around empty air.

A cry was cut off as he hit the hot liquid, the thick viscous honey covering his head, pulling him down. Emma saw one flailing arm and then nothing. A horrible sucking sound.

Audrey felt her breath catching, tried to get words out that wouldn’t come. She stumbled towards the valves at the base of the vat, fumbled with the taps, her fingers refusing to cooperate.

‘We-we have to drain it.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ Emma said, her voice dropping hard. ‘He’s dead.’


	11. Fallout

‘But it isn’t over, though, is it?’

Richard regarded his companions gloomily. The days since the events at Grantleigh had passed in a seemingly unending round of questions, both official and unofficial. From the outside, the little he knew of Steed and Emma’s world had appeared glamorous and exciting. Now that he was in it, he couldn’t wait for the moment he could get back out. All things considered, given a choice between hunting down diabolical masterminds and going back on the market stall where he’d started, he’d take the stall every time.

‘From what Marton said before he … died … it sounded like there were other people involved.’

‘There usually are,’ Steed said.

The curtains were closed against a stormy London night and the well-appointed flat should have felt welcoming. The bright red carnations arranged in Steed’s tuba looked ridiculously cheerful, a mockery of the despondency he didn’t seem able to shake off. ‘I wish I’d never started this. All that’s been achieved is another man is dead.’

Well deserved, in his case, Emma thought, but kept that thought to herself. ‘It’s an official enquiry now,’ she said, comfortingly.

‘And what difference does that make?’

‘It means things will start moving faster,’ Steed replied.

Richard looked appalled. ‘Faster than this weekend? My God…’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment.

Emma took a breath, was about to say something when she caught Steed’s eye, and the near-imperceptible shake of his head, and sat back again.

‘What was in the phial?’ Richard asked suddenly.

Steed tilted his head. ‘Phial?’

‘The one Marton dropped,’ Emma said.

‘Ah. They’re working on it, but it’s early days yet.’ He had spoken to the Brigadier twice a day for the last three days, and while the ex-soldier and intelligence man was somewhat distracted by worrying over Audrey, he couldn’t quite conceal his glee at examining the box of bees and phial of unknown liquid. Soon, he had promised Steed, very soon.

Richard nodded wearily. ‘Of course.’

‘Another drink?’

He hesitated for a moment and looked at his watch, shook his head. ‘I should go.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

Richard exchanged a chaste kiss with Emma, then crossed the room to where Steed was waiting by the red leather porter’s chair and collected his coat. He hesitated for a moment and then met Steed’s eye resolutely.

‘Steed… Have you heard from Audrey?’

‘No,’ Steed replied lightly. ‘She’s not returning my calls.’

A flicker of regret crossed Richard’s face. ‘Nor mine.’ He smiled slightly and clapped Steed’s shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

Not entirely certain what he was being thanked for, Steed nodded and closed the door behind him.

‘The Seillean Club,’ Emma said, as soon as he had stepped out of the alcove.

‘What about it?’

‘My exact question.’

Steed poured himself another drink, dropping ice into the glass, and settled himself on the sofa.

‘Well?’ She was impatient, tossing her hair away from her shoulders and her eyes fiery.

‘A very secretive lot,’ Steed said, drawing out the words. ‘I’ve made some discreet enquires.’

‘Of whom?’

‘Of, to be precise, the three men who took over from Lytton, Buchanan and Yeates. Background checks didn’t show any connections between them – different schools, different colleges – but they’re all members of the Seillean Club.’

‘How did you get on to that, anyway?’

‘I found their card while I was searching Marton fforbes-Hamilton’s place.’

‘He said he wasn’t a member.’ He looked at her and Emma rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’

Steed permitted himself a small smile. ‘Well, if you had a devious mind-’

‘Which you do.’

‘-and put two and two together-’

‘To get five hundred.’

‘It would seem that the Seillean Club does a nice line in … removing … inconvenient or unwanted bosses.’ He paused. ‘If what the backroom boys think is true, within the year every major company in the City could be under the control of the club.’

Emma’s lips pushed out thoughtfully. ‘So, to extend a metaphor, they’re building a hive. I wonder who the queen bee is.’ She caught Steed’s eye and smiled. ‘Metaphorically. Where is the club?’

Steed leaned back on the sofa. ‘From what we can gather, it has its base in a private house somewhere in London. Once we know the address, we’ll know everything.’

* * *

Brabinger was replacing the receiver as Audrey descended the staircase; on her questioning look he cleared his throat softly and said. ‘Mister DeVere, Madam. Again.’

It was a form of cowardice, she knew that. But after everything that had happened, everything that had been said, she could barely look him in the eye. Marton had been her cousin and even if she had had no involvement in his appalling schemes, she should have realised that something was terribly wrong. Family loyalty had skewed her judgement.

And Richard had been so kind, so understanding, asking her to return to London with him, offering her a place to stay while making no demands on her whatsoever; and it would have been easy to say yes, to simply allow someone else to do all of her thinking, make all of her decisions, for her.

But how could she be sure, how could she trust him, when she couldn’t even trust herself anymore.

Those gloomy thoughts accompanied her as she pulled on her outdoor shoes and coat, and started towards the lodge. It was a chilly morning, as though summer had already gone even though it was still early in the season. Marjory was waiting for her in the porch, her pretty face creased with worry and she regarded Audrey sympathetically.

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Aud?’

‘It has to be done.’

A duty, which was not the same thing at all as wanting to. Audrey shivered slightly as she pushed open the door to the lodge and stood on the threshold. It had to be done. If it weren’t for Marjory’s presence behind her, she might just turn back and never set foot there again. But she wouldn’t show that kind of weakness, not even in front of her oldest friend.

It was, though, also quite comforting to have Marjory with her, just like she had always been, no matter what.

The two women stepped into the lodge and both looked around the place.

‘Marton did love his hunting,’ Marjory said, regarding the array of mounted heads that adorned the walls.

‘Yes,’ Audrey said, ‘big game, human beings – all grist to his ample mill.’

Her voice was taut and Marjory pressed her lips together, holding in the questions. Audrey was, apparently, taking Marton’s death far harder than she would have expected, but she wasn’t talking about it – not really. It felt strange, not to be taken into Audrey’s confidence. An accident, that was what everyone had said. But even given Marton’s predilection for wine and most other substances of an alcoholic nature, it still seemed unlikely that he would have fallen into a vat of molten honey by chance. The presence of John Steed and the impossibly glamorous Emma Peel also made it seem all the more unsettling.

Marjory sighed, followed Audrey into the sitting room. She had never particularly cared for Marton, but he was someone she had known almost all of her life, a fixture at Grantleigh, just like the paintings and furniture and that awful lamp made out of a crocodile. She remembered the expression on Richard DeVere’s face when he had been shown it, and how sweet he had been to her, and for a moment she was lost in a reverie in which that handsome gentleman came all the way back from London for the sole purpose of sweeping her off her feet. Which was ludicrous, she knew: it was quite clearly Audrey he was interested in.

Still, it never hurt to dream.

Marjory pulled at a drawer at the writing desk and found it locked. ‘Do you have keys for this?’

‘Hm?’ Audrey was at the french windows, a pair of binoculars in her hand, and was looking between them and the outline of the manor visible from her standpoint. She shuddered and put the glasses down as though they burnt. ‘Oh, uh, yes…’ A search through her pockets located a bunch of keys and she handed them over.

Audrey wandered about the room, stopped by a side-table that held a multitude of framed photographs. Most were records of Marton’s days in India and various other locales which had paid host to his wholesale slaughter of the indigenous wildlife. But there were also the family portraits, the childhood holidays shared, the family occasions of weddings and christenings. It was sentimental and Audrey tried to reconcile that with the angry, bitter man who had committed such terrible acts and who had flung such horrible accusations at her.

She felt a tightening in her throat, her eyes burning and shook it off angrily. She refused to shed tears for what he had become. But there was something, a regret, a mourning, for the person he could have been.

From across the room, she heard a faint exclamation from Marjory. ‘What is it?’ It was more a reflexive question than actual interest.

‘Nothing.’ The answer came fast and Audrey glanced at her, noted the heightened colour in her cheeks. Marjory busied herself with the writing desk and after a few moments asked, ‘Have you heard from Richard?’

A stabbing pain, like a skewer, right in the middle of her chest. ‘DeVere? I think he’s left a few messages.’

Marjory aimed a reproving look at Audrey that caught her friend between the shoulder blades and shook her head. ‘You really ought to ring him.’

‘If you think so highly of him, you ring him.’

‘I would,’ Marjory said regretfully, ‘but I haven’t got his number.’ And then, more brightly: ‘But this might be his address, though.’

‘What?’

‘This.’ Marjory brandished a piece of paper with an air of triumph. ‘He is Cavendish Foods, isn’t he? Well, this is their notepaper and it has an address written on in, and his name. Well, a few names, actually.’

Audrey dropped her pile of papers. ‘Let me see that.’ She took the paper from Marjory’s hand and studied it, front and back, a frown slowly building across her face.

‘Is everything all right?’

Audrey didn’t reply at first, her gaze still fixed on the paper; then she raised her eyes to Marjory and looked at her with a curiously blank expression – except that her eyes were glittering strangely. ‘I…’ Audrey took a breath, shook herself slightly. ‘I’m sorry, Marjory, can we finish this another time? I have to go to London.’


	12. Turning Point

  1. _Turning Point_

_‘Steed, my boy!’_

‘Hello, Brigadier! Any news?’

_‘All out for eighty-six,’_the Brigadier replied gloomily. ‘_Follow on.’_

‘Sorry to hear it,’ Steed said, ‘but I didn’t mean the village cricket.’

_‘Oh? Oh! Ah, right, the bees.’_

‘What’s the verdict?’

_‘Same type that took a bite out of young DeVere. And just what we suspected: selectively bred Africanised honey bees. Vicious little blighters.’_

‘And in the phial?’

_‘Their venom. Extraordinarily toxic.’_

‘Hm. If someone were to ingest a certain amount, and then were stung by one of those bees…’

_‘Probably kill ‘em.’_

When Steed rang off he stood for a moment, thoughtful, fingers tapping against the receiver.

* * *

In the (sadly) second class carriage of the London train, Audrey pulled the sheet of paper out of her handbag and studied it again. It would have been perfectly innocuous and she wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that in that list of names written on the reverse side were three names that she remembered from that Saturday morning when Richard had told her why he had gone to Grantleigh in the first place. Other names that she didn’t recognise, and Richard’s name at the bottom. And at least three of those men were dead.

She folded it up again, pushed it back into her handbag, rested her head against the very uncomfortable seat. Her eyes ached, her whole body covered with a sort of dull pain that she put down to sleeplessness. She badly needed rest but she dreaded sleep, her dreams now filled with bodies falling through the air and a cry of horror suddenly cut off.

Her head nodded forward and she jerked herself awake, staring out of the grimy window until the outskirts of London appeared. The journey had been subject to the usual delays and so it was already late afternoon by the time she arrived. Plenty of time to think. And rethink. She could always just wait for the train to be cleared and then head straight back for Somerset. But Audrey had never been prone to second-guessing herself, still less to deviating from a course once it had been decided upon. And so she installed herself in a cab for the journey from King’s Cross to Mayfair and the address that Richard had given her before he left. In case she changed her mind.

The large red brick building was suitably imposing, as was the doorman, and while Audrey had no difficulty in handling staff – she had been doing it all her life – she felt a lurch of nervousness in the pit of her stomach as the lift surged upwards.

After all, just because he had rung her up every day didn’t mean that he would welcome her suddenly appearing on his doorstep. Men, she had always found, could be remarkably inconsistent. The lift doors rolled back smoothly, Audrey stepped out into the hallway and took a moment before ringing the bell to the penthouse. Moments that felt like years passed and then it was finally opened by a small, striking lady of indeterminate age. Iron-grey hair, sparkling dark eyes and a determined chin.

‘Can I help you?’

And a marked accent. This, Audrey realised, must be Richard’s mother. She smiled warmly.

‘Hello, Mrs-’

And then froze.

The name he had told her, the one she had repeated back to him… Pol-something. Or Por-something. It had definitely started with a P.

‘Mrs Poo.’ She hurried over it, kept her smile firmly in place and tried to ignore the way the lady’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you like this. I- I need to speak to your son. Richard. I’m Audrey fforbes-Hamilton, and-’

‘Ah!’ The look of suspicion was replaced by one of pleasure. ‘You are Audrey! Bedrich has told me so much about you. Come in! Come in.’

‘Is Richard here?’

Maria had hold of her arm. ‘He will be home soon. He will be so happy to see you.’

After her cousin had tried to kill him three times and she had ignored him ever since, yes, he would probably be delighted to find her sitting in his flat uninvited. Well, not exactly uninvited, but certainly unexpected.

Audrey found herself propelled into the flat, along a series of corridors and into a large, well-appointed sitting room, where she was almost pushed into a chair, presented with a cup of coffee, and her hostess seated herself opposite her.

‘Bedrich enjoyed his weekend in the country so much.’

He must have a very curious idea of what constituted a fun weekend, Audrey thought, and wondered what, exactly, he had told his mother about his days at Grantleigh. The murder attempts? The hideous death-by-honey-vat? The hay barn?

‘Really?’

Seeing Audrey’s bemused expression, Maria Polouvicka waved a hand. ‘There is a saying in old Czechoslovakia: it is better to run from the fox than die in the coop.’

Audrey nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

Maria smiled, leaned back in her chair, and studied the young woman who was sitting in the armchair as upright as a soldier. Undeniably attractive but definitely not the sort to use a transient prettiness to snare a rich husband. She had an air of breeding. Class, Maria thought. And there was intelligence and humour in her face. A strong woman, and a woman would have to be strong to keep Bedrich’s interest.

‘How old are you, my dear?’ Maria shrugged dramatically. ‘I can never tell with English women.’

Too surprised to be offended, Audrey said, ‘Twenty-six.’

Maria’s face was a picture of joy. ‘Ah! So young! And already so accomplished – and a business of your own!’

Rather like Burton locating the source of the Nile, Audrey felt as though she had discovered the source of Richard’s energetic personality. Audrey drank some of her coffee, which was excellent, and glanced around the room. A Degas statuette was in the middle of an ecstatic pirouette on a side table, a handful of exquisite Renoir sketches were dotted about the walls, and a display case that took up most of one wall held several pieces of porcelain that were practically begging her to examine them. Audrey restrained herself, forced herself to focus on Mrs Poo (which, apparently, was what she was calling her now) and reflected that, once again in their brief acquaintance, Richard DeVere had managed to confound her expectations completely.

From somewhere beyond where they were sitting, a door banged and Maria’s eyes gleamed. ‘That is Bedrich.’ She crossed to the door and in surprisingly stentorian tones, bellowed, ‘Bedrich! You won’t guess who is here!’

She heard Richard’s voice, slightly muffled by the distance: ‘If it’s Sonia, tell her she’ll have to hustle someone else into taking her nightclubbing.’

And then he was in the room and he saw her, stopped, stared and then he looked-

‘Audrey.’

He looked happy.

Audrey stood up, feeling suddenly awkward and determinedly ignoring the tightening behind her ribs caused by just seeing him again. ‘I’m sorry for just appearing like this…’

His hands closed around hers, strong and steady, and for the first time in days she felt able to draw a clear breath.

‘Are you all right? Has something else happened?’

‘No, no, it’s just-’

She very much wished his mother weren’t standing watching them. She wished they were back in the hay barn, when everything had seemed much simpler. He was warmth and safety, and she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

Richard drew her down to sit on the sofa, her knee brushing against his. ‘Tell me.’

Audrey reclaimed one of her hands and pulled the paper from her handbag. ‘We – Marjory and I – were sorting through Marton’s things, and we found this.’

He took it from her and she watched him closely as he read it, saw the slight flicker as he read the list of names. Then he turned it over, looked at the address written on the other side and his face changed.

‘My God… I should have known.’

‘You recognise it.’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her then. ‘Come on.’ Still holding her by the hand, Richard stood, taking her with him.

Maria, watching them with a growing air of bewilderment, stared at her son. ‘But you are going?’

‘Ring Emma,’ Richard told her. ‘If you can’t get hold of her, ring Steed. Their numbers are in the notebook by the telephone. Tell them we’ve gone to this address.’ He thrust the paper into her hands.

‘Bedrich? Bedrich, be careful!’ she called after him.

‘I always am, Mother.’

Just as she had been propelled into the room, Audrey was pulled back out of it. She offered Maria a breathless smile as she all but ran past her. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Poo – so nice to have met you!’

* * *

Steed let himself into Emma’s apartment without bothering with the doorbell. There was an air of triumph about him. He found her on the phone, at the tail-end of a conversation and waited with mild impatience while she finished.

‘That was Maria Polouvicka,’ she said when she hung up. ‘Apparently Richard and Audrey-’

‘Audrey?’ Steed’s eyebrows rose fractionally.

‘Yes, Audrey. They’ve gone haring off somewhere. Richard wanted her to tell us where.’ She handed Steed the notepad where she had taken down the address.

Steed looked at it. ‘By a remarkable coincidence, Mrs Peel, that’s exactly where we’re going.’

‘Oh?’ Emma frowned. ‘What is this place?’

‘The headquarters of the Seillean Club.’


	13. The Seillean Club

The E-type gunned through the streets, headlights catching against the rain that had started to fall in a thin drizzle.

‘Who is this Lumsden, anyway?’ Curled in the passenger seat, Audrey studied Richard’s profile.

‘One of my board of directors. I never really liked the man, but this…’

‘What are you going to do when we get there?’

His hands gripped the steering wheel. ‘I’m thinking of beating him to a pulp.’

Audrey thought this over and then nodded. ‘Good plan. I’ll hold him down, if needed.’

They exchanged a look and they both smiled slightly.

Silence for a time and then Richard asked: ‘Why did you bring this to me? Why not tell Steed?’

Audrey shifted in her seat. ‘Because I have a feeling he thinks that you might be mixed up in this.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘No.’

‘When did you decide that?’

She smiled slightly. ‘When I met you.’

He glanced at her, a softness in his expression, then he turned his eyes back to the road.

‘It’s a nice car,’ she said after a moment, examining the fine leather upholstery.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not as nice as my Rolls, of course.’

He frowned. ‘Your Rolls?’ There had, he remembered, been a decrepit Rolls Royce parked outside of the manor; something of a museum piece, rather than a viable mode of transportation. ‘You actually drive that?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Of course I do! What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s very … stylish.’

Mollified, Audrey relaxed. ‘And this has style. In its own way. It suits you.’

Richard let out a breath of laughter. ‘Thanks. I think.’

A slip road, away from the main thrum of London traffic, heading west towards Twickenham.

‘Who’s Sonia?’

He skirted a slow-moving lorry. ‘What?’

‘Sonia.’ Audrey maintained a diffident tone. ‘You said something about taking someone called Sonia nightclubbing.’ She pronounced the last word as though he had been proposing a rampage involving the kicking of small puppies and the removal of candy from its infant owners.

Richard’s eyes slid sideways and the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Ah. Sonia is a very vivacious, very beautiful brunette.’

‘I see.’ She stared at the hands clasped in her lap.

‘She’s also engaged to my best friend and would have been my sister-in-law.’

‘Oh?’ The meaning of his words sunk in. ‘Oh…’

‘I’ve known Sonia since she was born.’ There was a warm indulgence in his tone. ‘She was a pest then and she’s a pest now.’

Audrey let out a breath that she told herself was absolutely not one of relief and propped her cheek against her hand, watching him and the amusement that was clear in his face. ‘You sound very fond her.’

‘I am.’ He glanced at her again. ‘You know, you really are terribly attractive when you’re jealous.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I was not jealous! I was just...’

‘Just?’ he prompted.

‘Curious,’ she said defiantly.

‘Ah.’ Richard nodded wisely. ‘Of course.’

Audrey narrowed her eyes at him, but couldn’t quite suppress a smile. It was infuriating, the way that even when she tried she couldn’t maintain an appropriate level of annoyance with him.

And he seemed to know it, which was doubly infuriating.

They drove on, windscreen wipers streaking diamond trails across the glass and the night drawing in, inky, around them. Low clouds over rooftops. The unseasonable weather had a real bite to it now, and Audrey shivered.

The car slowed, stopped.

‘We’re here.’

A large house, set back in its own grounds. The gates were open and they were at the bottom of a flight of stone steps leading to the main door.

Richard turned in his seat. ‘Look, Audrey, I know I dragged you into this, but-’

She waited, expectant, daring him to say it.

‘But it might not be the best idea for you to come in.’

‘I see. Because I’m a woman and you’re afraid I may get hurt?’

‘No, because I’m afraid _I _might and I don’t want you to see me when I start screaming.’

She couldn’t help the laughter, and shook her head. ‘You _are _an idiot.’

He grinned at her.

‘These men have tried to destroy both of us. I’m not going to run away until I’ve told them exactly what I think of them.’

His gaze wandered over her and his smile spread slowly. ‘You know, Steed said you were the sort of girl who could run the Empire single-handed.’

‘I should think so, too.’

But single-handed, she reflected, sounded rather lonely. After all, Elizabeth had Philip. Even the mighty Victoria had had her beloved Albert. Richard rounded the nose of the car, opened the passenger door and handed her out of it, as though they were heading for the opera, rather than confronting the apparent mastermind of a particularly nasty murder plot. The drizzle had turned sharp, icy flecks hitting their faces.

He kept hold of her hand as they mounted the steps; the front door was slightly ajar and Richard pushed it open. Audrey felt his grip begin to release and before he could let go of her, she laced her fingers through his. He looked at her, and she met that steady, questioning gaze.

Then, hand-in-hand, they walked into the house.

In the entry-hall they paused, looked about.

‘How unutterably vulgar,’ Audrey said after a moment.

It was a house with aspirations, Richard thought. It badly wanted to be a Stately Home of England, but was trapped inside the shell of a medium-sized mansion in suburban Twickenham.

‘At least it’s handy for the rugby,’ he said.

Audrey gave him a withering look. And then her expression changed and she tilted her head, listening. ‘Do you hear that?’

It seemed to lie under the silence: a low, droning buzz.

‘Bees?’

She nodded.

This wasn’t the comforting, content buzzing of Audrey’s hives. It sounded angry, desperate. Like the grinding of metal.

‘I think it’s this way,’ he murmured. Her fingers felt warm and steady in his. Once this was over, they owed one another a long conversation.

The noise grew louder as they approached a set of double doors that stood slightly ajar. Richard pulled one half wider and they stepped through. The space that greeted them was unexpected; to Audrey’s eyes, it looked as though the set designer for one of Hammer Horror’s more lurid offerings had been let loose to design a Baronial hall after having indulged in substances of dubious legality. There were even pairs of crossed rapiers mounted on the walls. Christopher Lee might have considered it rather outré.

It was not Christopher Lee in residence, however, but two men sitting at their ease on a dais at the far end of the room and both wearing yellow-and-black striped blazers. Something stirred in her memory: something Emma Peel had said, and the Brigadier featured in it somewhere.

Audrey felt Richard’s hand tighten around hers and she glanced at him, saw the hardness in his face, the muscle bunching in his jaw.

They had almost reached the platform before they were noticed and the two men stopped their conversation and looked at them, surprised. The younger had a weak, rather slack face and the older-

Audrey shivered slightly. He had an innocuous face, but his eyes were very dark and curiously flat, as though he had sucked out all the light and life around him.

‘DeVere. What the devil are you doing here?’ A metallic voice. It matched the buzzing; the intensity had grown as they entered the room and Audrey could feel its vibrations running through her unpleasantly.

‘Lumsden.’Richard nodded cordially and turned his gaze to the younger of the two, a contemptuous curl around his lips. ‘Gayforth.’

Audrey started. ‘Gayforth?’

‘I should have guessed,’ Richard said, with a calm that she was sure he couldn’t actually be feeling. ‘You’re usually measuring the height before Lumsden’s even said jump.’

Gayforth scowled at him. ‘How did you find us?’

‘Marton fforbes-Hamilton left your address lying around. Careless of him.’

‘Not as careless as walking into places you haven’t been invited,’ Lumsden retorted, his already-dark eyes turning to a shade of black, like chips of obsidian in his weathered face.

‘The Seillean Club!’ Audrey said suddenly, the memory of that Saturday night conversation clear. Bounders, the Brigadier had called them; which was, Audrey thought, being kind. ‘Marton _was _a member here, wasn’t he?’

The one called Gayforth looked her up and down as though he had only just noticed her. ‘Who the blazes are you?’

Four hundred years of history, blue-blood, pride and self-assurance came to the fore as Audrey raised her chin and stared him down. ‘I am Audrey fforbes-Hamilton,’ she said, in much the same way, Richard imagined, that Boudica would have informed the Romans that she was Queen of the Iceni.

Lumsden’s eyebrows twitched in interest. ‘Ah, so you’re Audrey. We should thank you, really.’

‘For what?’

He smiled thinly. ‘The honey.’

‘Those men,’ Richard said. ‘What did they ever do to you? For God’s sake, what have _I _ ever done to you?’

‘You haven’t done anything, old boy.’ Lumsden provided another of those thin smiles and his eyes darkened. ‘But then you’re not an old boy, are you? And that’s rather the point. Decent of you to have started Cavendish, but we can’t really have a solid British firm in the hands of… Well…’ He gestured towards Richard, a pitying contempt in his face.

‘Not really the done thing,’ Gayforth added.

Richard regarded him calmly. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of having someone else to do your thinking for you? Or has all the inbreeding resulted in an inability to think at all?’

Gayforth bristled, started to say something but then subsided off a look from Lumsden.

From his slightly elevated position on the dais, Lumsden looked down at Richard and Audrey, his expression giving nothing away; but his eyes narrowed very slightly when he saw their entwined fingers.

‘It isn’t too late for you to be on the right side of this, Miss fforbes-Hamilton.’

Audrey looked at him blankly. ‘The right side?’

‘Your skills as a beekeeper. The honey production. That is very valuable to us – and could be very lucrative for you.’

A moment while she caught her breath and reminded herself that she had been brought up a lady. ‘You’re insane. Both of you.’

Lumsden’s eyes glittered darkly. ‘I would have thought that a woman like you would stick to our own kind.’

Audrey held herself very upright and her fingers tightened around Richard’s. ‘I am with my own kind. You’re nothing but a cheap little murderer. How on earth do you think you’re going to get away with this?’

The older man shrugged. ‘We have so far. Besides, we have the perfect scapegoat.’

Audrey frowned.

‘He means me,’ Richard said.

‘Indeed. It’s a pity about you, DeVere. Under other circumstances you’d be just the sort of chap we’re looking for; but as it is you’re just a bit too…’

‘Foreign?’

Another thin smile. ‘Precisely.’

They were monsters, Audrey thought, and she felt sick. These were the men that Marton had been involved with. Lumsden was still talking, and she had a powerful longing to claw his face right down to the bone.

‘And after all,’ he said, ‘who are people going to believe? Pillars of the establishment, or a jumped-up Eastern European shopkeeper?’

‘You know, I’m getting a bit tired of that,’ Richard remarked conversationally to Audrey.

‘Being called a shopkeeper?’

‘No, being called jumped-up.’

‘It isn’t fair,’ Audrey agreed.

‘Oh, it’s not that; it’s just that it’s so unimaginative.’

Audrey giggled slightly; a wildly inappropriate reaction, she felt, under the circumstances, but she couldn’t help it any more than she could help the prickling behind her eyes. ‘Idiot,’ she said softly.

‘Always so urbane, aren’t you, DeVere?’ Gayforth chimed in now, his weak features contorted in a sneer. ‘But it doesn’t fool anyone. No matter what, you’ll never be one of us.’

Richard looked him over with an air of detachment. ‘I’ll live.’

Gayforth looked delighted. ‘I very much doubt it.’

‘You have one last chance, Miss fforbes-Hamilton,’ Lumsden said. ‘Join us, or face the consequences.’

Shoulders rigid and her head held high, Audrey was unflinching. ‘Do your worst.’

Lumsden smiled thinly. ‘Oh, it won’t be us who does it.’

He pulled a cord and the curtains behind the dais parted. The angry buzz that had been a constant running beneath their conversation was louder. The curtains hid an area sealed behind a Perspex wall, with a door set into it, and beyond that was the source of the buzzing. Great artificial hives stood inside and their occupants were thick around them.

‘They’re swarming,’ Audrey murmured.

‘Is that bad?’ Richard asked, his lips barely moving.

‘It isn’t good.’

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ Lumsden gazed at the swarm with appreciation. ‘Our very own creation.’ He looked at Audrey. ‘Can you guess what they are?’

‘Selectively bred Africanised honey bees.’

The voice was John Steed’s and all four turned to see him step from the shadows beneath one of the high windows. A faint sound from opposite him and four heads moved again, found Emma Peel watching them, her lithe body encased in an orange catsuit. Her face was inscrutable, but the smile that played at the corners of her mouth was not a pleasant one.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Lumsden demanded.

‘John Steed,’ he replied smoothly, inclining his head with every indication of politeness. ‘And this is Mrs Peel.’

‘Steed?’ Gayforth frowned. ‘Steed… Hang on, he’s the chap who was going to be proposed as a new member!’

‘You have been busy,’ Emma remarked. Steed smiled at her.

Lumsden’s eyes flared in anger and he glared at his younger associate. ‘You fool! He’s the fellow who was down at Grantleigh!’ He looked at Steed and Emma again. ‘I’ve seen you two before, somewhere.’

‘Yes,’ Steed said, ‘we had the misfortune of running into you outside of DeVere’s flat last week. You didn’t stop to be introduced.’ He looked around the hall, a faint ripple of dismay crossing his face as he took in the décor. ‘It’s quite an ingenious scheme, using killer bees to get rid of … undesirables? Easy enough, I suppose, to get someone to eat the tainted honey and then when they’re stung…’

‘As you say,’ Lumsden said coldly, ‘easy. Easier than you’d think.’

Steed advanced into the room. ‘Get Audrey out of here,’ he murmured as he passed Richard.

She felt the pull on her hand and after a momentary resistance, moved with him. Audrey was not a physical coward, but she was also under no illusions that she could do what Emma could. And she certainly did not want anyone, namely the person currently in possession of her left hand, to be hurt because of her.

He would risk his life to protect her, she knew that. A giddy and terrifying knowledge.

They turned and found their path out of the hall blocked by three men in the same striped blazers as Gayforth and Lumsden.

Richard shot her an apologetic look. ‘Bet you’re wishing you’d stayed in the car.’

‘How much?’ she shot back.

They moved back as the three men advanced. They didn’t look the types who would make particularly effective henchmen, in Audrey’s opinion; but, she had to admit, you could never really tell. Beside her, Richard felt braced, tense, waiting for something to happen. He seemed amazingly calm and she wondered just how many fights he had been in before now.

‘How many fights have you been in?’ she asked quietly.

‘None,’ he replied. ‘This is bloody terrifying.’

More inappropriate laughter and Audrey shook her head.

There was a long moment where the whole house seemed to hold its breath, nerves stretched, unendurable, waiting for the first one to break. It wasn’t clear who moved first but that coiled stillness ended in a flurry of rushing bodies.

On the dais, Lumsden grabbed a rapier from one of the crossed sets on the wall and found his attack neatly parried by the sword that Steed loosed from its sheath in his umbrella.

Gayforth, in a most unsportsmanlike manner, attempted to blindside Steed and came into stunning contact with the latter’s armour-plated bowler hat.

Audrey found herself pushed into a position of relative safety while Richard and Emma tackled the three henchmen; and if she had been less irate, she might have left them to get on with it, but by this point Audrey had had enough of being at the mercy of other people’s whims. So when one of the striped-jacketed men evaded Emma’s high-kick, he ran straight into a woman armed with one of the many weapons that adorned the walls of the hall and she delivered a fierce blow to his solar plexus with a knobkerrie.

He dropped.

Richard, taking a moment from his own rather one-sided scrap (these were not, in his opinion, professional henchmen), looked at her in surprised admiration.

‘I opened for the all girls’ under-sixteen cricket team.’ She was breathing hard, her face shining with triumph.

He grinned at her, and dispatched his own opponent with apparent ease.

Audrey frowned. ‘I thought you said you’d never been in a fight.’

‘And I haven’t. But I never said I’d never had a boxing bout.’

She was outraged. ‘That’s just semantics!’

For Emma, the encounter barely counted as a warmup; and having disposed of her final combatant had watched the exchange between Richard and Audrey with some amusement. And so it was, from her slightly detached vantage point, that she saw Gayforth heading for the exit.

He was a weak man, and not a noticeably clever one, but he recognised a sinking ship when he saw one and, like every rat in history, was abandoning it. Until he found himself brought down, effortlessly, by Emma’s judo throw. Dazed, disoriented, he was dragged to his feet and Emma pointed him at Richard.

‘Care to do the honours?’

Richard smiled grimly. ‘I’d like nothing better.’

Emma released her hold and Gayforth’s figure listed, his slack lips emitting a faint keening wibble of self-pity, and then Richard’s fist connected with his jaw.

Which left Steed and Lumsden.

Still on the dais, they had abandoned weapons and it was a hand-to-hand fight. Emma took in the scene, assessing: Steed was the superior, but Lumsden was close to the door leading into the hives and she could see him stretching out, reaching for the handle. There was a wildness in his face, and if he got it open…

She was running before Steed barked out her name, already knowing what was in his mind. Fleet-footed, she ignored the steps and leapt onto the dais.

Emma grasped the handle, waiting, aware of the black cloud behind the Perspex wall, wings beating the air and their drone had risen. It jarred against her ears.

Lumsden aimed a blow at Steed, found it blocked, came on again and was driven back. He made a grab for the door handle and there was a momentary surprise when he encountered Emma.

‘After you,’ she murmured.

She opened the door. A shove in the centre of Lumsden’s back sent him across the threshold and she slammed it shut.

The swarm descended and Lumsden’s shout of outrage turned to a scream as the bees, defensive and hostile in the extreme, found their target.

From the floor of the hall, Audrey watched with a horrified fascination for a moment and then buried her face in Richard’s chest. His arms closed around her. Another moment and then he also looked away.

Standing side by side, Emma and Steed kept watch. Richard had been right, Emma thought: it was an extremely unpleasant way to die. Although, still a faster death than he deserved.

Lumsden lay motionless, surrounded by the spent corpses of his assassins. The silence that followed, filling the corners and the rafters of the old hall, was oppressively heavy, broken only the buzzing of a handful of bees, their wings beating desperately against the clear walls of their prison.


	14. New Beginnings

‘What happened to the rest of the hive?’ Audrey asked.

‘They were destroyed,’ the Brigadier replied. ‘Had to do it.’

‘I can’t help feeling rather sorry for those bees.’

‘They were killer bees, Aud,’ Marjory said, reasonably.

Audrey was indignant. ‘That wasn’t their fault!’

It was a glorious early-summer’s day and the little group sitting around the terrace enjoyed the sunshine and the balmy breeze that wove around them. With pitchers of Pimms and a steady supply of delicate sandwiches, it was an idyll of an English afternoon in the country. The tranquility was at odds with the somewhat sombre tenor of the conversation.

‘Has Gayforth had anything to say for himself?’ Richard asked, helping himself to more of Mrs Beecham’s bounty.

Steed grimaced. ‘Almost relentlessly – fellow’s barely stopped talking. None of it his idea, of course, and he had no idea it would go so far… All the usual platitudes.’

‘Yes, he always was very good at absolving himself of all responsibility.’

‘It was quite a simple plan, really,’ Steed continued. ‘They extracted the venom from the bees-’

‘Poisonous stuff,’ Brigadier Lemington stated, somewhat unnecessarily.

‘Quite. The venom was added to the honey given to the intended target. Each of those companies had at least one member of the Seillean Club waiting in the wings to take over; all they had to do was ensure that some of the honey was eaten. Then, at a convenient moment, the bee was introduced and it did its work.’

‘Certainly gave them a certain deniability,’ Emma said. ‘And if anyone started asking any questions-’

‘They’d pin the blame on me,’ Richard said grimly. He paused. ‘Given that my name was on their list, I take it that I was to be disposed of when the rest of the jobs were done?’

Steed nodded.

‘With Gayforth taking my place.’

Steed moved his hands slightly, a faintly apologetic gesture.

‘I’ve never heard anything so awful!’ Marjory was horrified, ready to be full of protective outrage on behalf of her new friend.

‘Why did you hire either of them, anyway?’ Emma asked.

Richard’s smile was uncharacteristically sardonic. ‘Class, connections, the old school ties, the Old Boy Network – all of the usual clichés that I lack. Damned difficult to build up a business without them, though.’

From her seat opposite him, Audrey studied Richard silently. She used to think that the sort of people, the magnates, who would buy up the stately homes of England could only ever be impossibly vulgar and bent on destroying all of the traditions and heritage that were so much a part of the fabric of places like Grantleigh. She wasn’t so sure anymore. If anyone thought that a man like Richard DeVere lacked class because of his background, then maybe it really was time to tear the whole structure down. The newspapers kept saying that they were becoming a meritocracy – let it come, she thought.

Richard caught her eye and she looked away.

‘I don’t understand how Marton could have got himself involved with something like that,’ she said quietly, staring at the fruit in her drink.

‘He needed money and quite badly,’ Steed told her

Audrey looked up at him, shaking her head, frowning. ‘But he had the money from the sale of the manor.’

‘It was all long gone, I’m afraid,’ Steed said gently. ‘Gambling debts.’

Her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, Marton…’

‘He was rather desperate, I think,’ Steed continued. ‘From the looks of things, he even tried his hand at blackmail.’

‘Blackmail?!’

Steed glanced at Emma and her eyebrows rose fractionally. He blew out a breath. ‘There were photographs. In the lodge.’

‘What sort of photographs?’

Steed paused. Faces, expectant and wary, looked back at him. ‘We’ll talk later.’

Audrey set her glass down on the table heavily, sat forward. ‘We’ll talk now. God knows, everyone knows everything already. Just say it.’

‘All right.’ His voice was silky soft. ‘There were photographs of young girls, in rather compromising poses, in the lodge. The problem is, they’ve gone.’

‘I have them.’

In the silence, Marjory’s voice sounded very small. Audrey stared at her.

‘What- You? You let him take-’

‘No!’ Marjory’s pale cheeks flamed red, a stain that spread down her neck. ‘If I’d known anything like that was going on, I’d have put a stop to it. I found them when we were clearing out Marton’s things- Well, I thought you’d rather not know, Aud, it was already all so beastly.’

‘Why did you keep them?’ Emma asked, studying the blonde with a sudden interest.

Marjory was not accustomed to being the centre of attention, and this was attention she would most definitely rather have done without. ‘I recognised the girls. They’re locals, most of them. I was going to give them back to them, so they’d know they’d be safe.’

Audrey felt the breath shuddering through her chest, her throat constricting. She pushed down the knot. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Oh, Aud…’

‘He was my cousin,’ Audrey said fiercely. ‘It’s my responsibility.’

Restored to her normal colour, Marjory offered her a sympathetic smile. ‘I can go along with you, if you need moral support.’

The corners of Audrey’s mouth twitched upwards. She had always been the dominant one in the friendship but, not for the first time, she thought that it was really Marjory who was the strong one.

‘No wonder he was so insistent on wanting us to get married,’ Audrey said after a moment. ‘Much easier to have control of the business that way.’

A pause, and then Steed said: ‘I don’t think it was just that. In his way, I think he cared.’

Audrey met his gaze. ‘I don’t think that makes it any better.’

‘No. Perhaps not.’

‘He was a bad lad,’ the Brigadier declared. ‘It’s all worked out for the best.’

Audrey forced a smile, still avoiding the eyes that gleamed at her darkly from across the table. ‘Perhaps. Another drink, Brigadier?’

‘Hm.’ He contemplated his glass. ‘Don’t suppose you have any mead?’

* * *

As with their previous visit, Emma had driven down with Richard. With their return upon them, however, Steed found her waiting beside his Bentley, her cases already neatly stacked in the tonneau.

‘You won’t mind giving me a lift back.’

It was not a question.

‘Delighted, Mrs Peel.’

The engine thrummed into life and they started to make their way at a stately pace towards the drive that was laced with the long shadows of evening, the sun hanging low in the sky. A clinking sound emanated from the backseat.

‘Mead,’ Steed said, off Emma’s look of enquiry. ‘The Brigadier made me a present of a case of it.’

A delicate shudder ran though her. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with anything honey-related for the foreseeable future.’

‘Ah, wait until you’ve tasted it, Mrs Peel. It’s the food of the gods.’

‘Gods? So, that’s how you see yourself, is it? I’ve long had suspicions of incipient megalomania.’

He laughed. ‘I’m but a humble cup-bearer.’ His eyes slid sideways. ‘Now, you on the other hand…’

Emma shook her head, amused eyes crinkling with affection.

They waved to Audrey, who was standing on the stone steps.

‘It was nice of Audrey to invite us down,’ Emma said.

‘Yes.’ Steed’s gaze was fixed ahead. ‘I doubt we’ll be invited back, though.’

A tall figure had descended the steps, stopping beside Audrey, and he also raised a hand in salutation. ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Emma murmured. She turned around. ‘I’m sorry about Audrey – I know how fond of her you are.’

‘I’m sorry about DeVere,’ Steed responded lightly.

Emma laughed. ‘No, you’re not.’

Steed glanced at her and smiled. ‘There’s a rather good inn in the village – the food is excellent. Dinner?’

Emma smiled happily, settling in her seat. ‘Dinner.’

* * *

Audrey watched the car recede into the distance and even when it had disappeared from view and the low hum of the engine was no longer audible, she still stood, eyes on the horizon.

‘What are you going to do now?’

His voice was velvet warmth and she wanted to lose herself in it. But what she wanted to do and what she would have to do were not the same thing.

‘Carry on,’ she said, resolute.

‘You need a good partner and a healthy cash injection.’

Audrey huffed out a breath. ‘They’re not exactly queuing up.’

‘Luckily for you I’m in the market for an investment opportunity and have a lot of spare cash floating about.’

She frowned. ‘Oh?’

‘I’ve chucked the business.’

Audrey spun around, facing him. ‘You’ve done what?’

‘Chucked the business,’ he replied, with a maddening calm. ‘Sold it. Lock, stock and barrel. At least, I’m in the process of selling it.’

‘What?’

He sighed. ‘I know I’m speaking English.’

Audrey stared at him. ‘But why? You’ve just spent the last two weeks risking your life to protect it!’

He shrugged lightly. ‘And it was well worth protecting. That doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life as a supermarket magnate. I’m tired of it. The last few weeks have just made that more apparent. Besides, we wouldn’t manage very well with you here and me in London.’

‘We? Manage?’

Richard blinked at her, puzzled, and then his face cleared. ‘Ah, right, I didn’t explain that part, did I? I’m asking you to marry me.’

Audrey’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment; and when she did manage to speak, her words were strangled. ‘You- You’re doing what?’

‘This is becoming a very repetitive conversation.’ Richard looked at her severely. ‘Marry. You. Me. Wedding bells. Orange blossom. All that sort of thing.’

All of the words she wanted to say jammed against each other, colliding like the swirl of emotions in her chest. It would have been comical, if it didn’t hurt so much.

‘You don’t mean it,’ she muttered.

One corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I never say things I don’t mean.’

Her eyes flared sapphire at him and for a moment he caught his breath, watching her and the play of emotions across her face. More than anything he wanted to hold her, never letting her go, but until she came willingly into his arms…

‘You can’t want to marry me,’ Audrey said, trying to sound reasonable about it. ‘You don’t know me!’

Equally reasonable, Richard considered this. ‘Well… Stanley didn’t know Livingstone, but he still recognised him when he saw him – just like I recognised you.’

Her eyes were huge, her words soft. ‘As what?’

‘As the girl I want to marry.’

She was breathing hard and she could feel her nails biting into the flesh of her palms, hands balled at her sides. Teetering. For a second she seemed to lean towards him – and then pulled back.

‘This is all very romantic and very gallant; but just because we had a … a roll in the hay together… It doesn’t mean that you owe me anything.’

His eyebrows lifted very slightly. ‘I didn’t think it did. I want to marry you because I love you.’

His expression was open, serious. He said the words so easily.

‘That- That’s just infatuation,’ she said, addressing the middle of his chest.

‘No it isn’t. I’ve been in love once before, I know what it feels like.’

She looked up at him. ‘Anna.’

‘Yes,’ he said, soft. ‘And I loved her very much.’

So much in her world had shifted lately, everything becoming uncentred. This was all too much, she told herself. Tried to tell herself. She wasn’t really listening.

Richard let out a breath. ‘Look. If you don’t feel the way that I feel about you… Well, I can wait, see if that changes. And if it doesn’t, then I’ll leave you alone.’ He paused. ‘That doesn’t change the business proposition, by the way. The one isn’t predicated on the other.’

‘I don’t want your money,’ Audrey said, defiant. ‘I’m not a gold digger.’

He laid a gentle hand on her cheek, his thumb running across her smooth skin. ‘I never, not for a moment, thought that you were.’ He lowered his hand reluctantly. ‘If it helps, it’s all family money, anyway.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m selling Cavendish to your Uncle Greville.’

‘What?!’

‘Don’t start all that again,’ Richard groaned. ‘We haven’t signed the contracts yet, but it’s a gentleman’s agreement.’ He paused, then added: ‘And a grocer’s.’

‘You’re quite mad,’ Audrey said faintly.

‘Possibly. That doesn’t change the facts, though.’ He watched her closely. ‘Waiting probably wouldn’t do me much good, would it? You know what you want and what you don’t want. And if you don’t want me, I’ll accept it. With great reluctance, but I will. But you have to tell me, Audrey. You have to say the words.’

Audrey looked at him firmly, moistened her lips, took a breath. And said nothing.

A long moment while they watched each other.

‘Is that yes? You will?’

She ignored the hammering in her chest, kept her tone as light as possible. ‘Yes to what? You haven’t actually asked the question yet.’

Richard let out a breath of laughter, took both of her hands in his. ‘Audrey fforbes-Hamilton, will you marry me?’

‘Yes.’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, yes!’

They found each other’s lips; kisses of quiet passion that were filled with delicious promise.

‘Oh, Richard, I love you,’ she murmured.

He smiled against her hair. ‘I know.’

‘Oh!’ She blazed at him, trying to summon up the outrage that his casual acceptance of her adoration demanded. But happiness bubbled up instead and she laughed, submitted to his embrace, buried her face in the curve of his neck, felt his heart beating hard against hers.

‘Darling…’ He caught her face in his hands. ‘We’re going to have a marvellous time! Starting with getting that roof fixed.’ He peered up at it with disapproval.

‘I would have thought that you’d start by tunnelling your way through the fireplace in the library.’

‘I do really want to see what’s behind it,’ Richard admitted, his dark eyes gleaming at the prospect.

Audrey rolled her eyes. ‘Come on. I’ll find you a crowbar.’

He rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. ‘Audrey,’ he said with reverence, ‘you’re a woman in a million.’

She feigned hurt. ‘Only a million?’

Richard pushed the hair back from her face tenderly, twisting the strands around his fingers. ‘Multi-millions.’

Laughing, arms around one another, the couple mounted the stone steps and walked into the manor.


End file.
